Problems in Flight
by clautchy
Summary: Wing!Cas. A series of ficlets and oneshots featuring the troubles of an angel with visible wings.
1. Hiroshima

_**AN:**_ This is designed to be a story that has many scenes and situations that revolve around Cas having wings. There will be continuity with each chapter, however, and I believe there will be gradual Destiel. Feedback is appreciated.

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"Cas?!"

Down went the flimsy lampshade by the table. Eyes wide and an expression strangely similar to that of a domestic animal that was aware of its wrongdoings, he lowered his head in reserved shame. It didn't last long, as it was Sam's laptop that fell next.

Well, it was swooped off the table and Dean laughed, watching Sam make a dive to catch his precious laptop.

"Just. Stop moving," Sam breathed heavily, picking himself up and laptop pressed tightly to his chest.

"I am very sorry," Cas mumbled, "but it is a very small room."

Dean snorted, not seeing how that justified his clumsiness. Dean and Sam had slowly been adjusting to the things: appendages protruding from Cas' shoulder blades with raven-like feathers, large in size and at times, very difficult to manage. Dean guessed Cas was still trying to get used to the wings too, as he had trouble keeping them still at the best of times. This was one of those times.

"Why don'tcha sit down on the couch, alright?" Dean asked, but as soon as the words left his lips he instantly regretting it for Cas' wings stretched out the very moment Cas took a step. Sam narrowly dodged feathers-to-the-face and instead, his left wing crashed into the wall and the cheap, abstract art slipped off its hook, shattering into a dozen pieces on the carpet.

"I do not think sitting is a wise idea," Cas said finally, his tight lips and wide eyes a clear indication of his embarrassment.

"Yeah, got that," Dean blinked as he stifled another laugh, watching Sam slink away to the corner furthest away from Cas. Poor guy.

Cas remained rooted to the spot with his shoulders tense and fists by his sides. Dean only shook his head, unable to understand why an angel couldn't even control his own wings. He supposed, after having your wings on an alternate dimension for so long there was the possibility that Cas had forgotten _how_ to do so. Having an extra pair of limbs to manage wouldn't be easy, especially with the size of those things.

Dean stood up, "Look, Sammy and I have been workin' a case. I'll get you seated, you can watch some TV, and we'll be back later tonight and by then, your wings will have stopped with the twitching and the flapping. How's that sound?"

Castiel nodded once and Dean approached him, wondering how he was supposed to move Castiel without being hit by a freak wing, or breaking something else that would cost them a considerable amount of money. Obviously, he only needed Cas on the edge of his bed and all would be good, but that was ten steps. Damn.

"Alright, I'm gonna hold your wings down, okay? So they'll stay folded. You gotta promise me to try and keep them in because those things look a lot stronger than I am."

Another nod. Dean sighed and stepped behind Cas, opening his hands wide to clamp the joints on both wings. It was a strange feeling, especially being able to feel the bone dig into his palms, but he ignored that and prepared for Cas to start walking. He took one step and his right wing twitched, begging to be freed but Dean kept a tight grip. The second step and both wings were twitching.

Sam watched from afar, cringing each time Cas moved in fear of the explosion of wings and feathers that could potentially knock out both him and Dean if they were hit.

Luck never lasted too long for the Winchesters. Sixth step.

The right wing pushed directly into Dean and he fell backwards, clutching his stomach as he gasped for air, "Son of a–!" The wing continued flapping and out of all possibilities, Dean received a mouthful of feathers. He spat out the taste, his face a mix of disgust, rage and _I-can't-do-this-anymore_.

"Dean, I am sorry," Cas said quickly, and Dean could tell he meant it. The stiff posture and desperation in his voice told him enough.

"Right." Dean picked himself up, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand, "A few more steps. Then we're done. It's not your fault, I know." Inside his head, he was actually rallying off some of his best curses and phrases that would make the angel repel him in the name of Jesus Christ. Or he'd faint from the blasphemy.

Dean took hold of the wings again, wondering if death by wings was a common occurrence. He could only image the funeral: 'My brother Dean died courageously while helping an angel sit down. This is how he would have wanted to have gone.' _Hah._

He had only ever touched Cas' wings one other time. That was when Sam and Dean had seen them for the first time, and Dean couldn't keep his eyes of them. He couldn't help it. He just had to get used to their presence. He only touched them by accident, Cas being the culprit as his wings were even more uncontrollable when they were first visible. But they were incredibly soft and each feather had a different texture of their own that Dean wished he could inspect closer. He was just curious.

Cas resumed the pitiful task while Dean clutched onto both appendages, knowing if Sam wasn't such a chicken they could work together and keep Cas' wings pinned down more easily. But, Cas finally made it and he hesitantly sat on the very edge of the bed, looking very afraid that his wings would spurt out again.

"It's good, we're good." Dean said, reassuring himself more than anything else, "Sammy and I will be back soon enough. Gank some bitch ghost then grab a bite to eat. You want me to buy you a beer?" Dean asked, doing his best to comfort an angel who was clearly having a hard time adjusting to his new form.

"I am fine," he said stiffly, hands digging into his knees.

Dean shrugged and turned on the television, picking up his duffel bag from his bed. Sam finally moved from his fortress that was the corner and shuffled past Castiel, placing his laptop back onto the tabletop reluctantly. He followed Dean out and the brothers couldn't help but let out a laugh once the door was shut.

"I should feel guilty for laughin', but I ain't," Dean smirked, walking down the corridor with Sam by his side.

Sam opened his mouth in hopes of making a witty remark, only to stop abruptly as the boys heard a loud crash from the other side of the wall and a desperate wail from a struggling angel.

"I think that was your laptop."

Dean was sure Sam was holding back tears of anguish.


	2. Sardines

_**AN:** _I have a long list of ideas for these ficlets/oneshots, so be prepared for very frequent updates. I enjoyed writing this one and hope the positioning of Cas' wings were made clear as I sometimes found it difficult to do so. Hope you enjoy this instalment, and feedback is always welcome.

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Out of everything that Dean never wanted to do, this was one of those things that Dean never wanted to do. If there had been another way, Dean would have forced Cas to take it but unfortunately, with the demons monitoring any angel flight teleportation was out of the question. Impala it was.

Cas had ridden in the Impala before but that was before the appearance of his wings. Putting Cas into the backseat of a low-roofed car was going to be a difficult task and having a cramped angel stuck in the same place for fourteen solid hours would be only worse.

"How are we going to fit you in?" Sam asked uncertainly, standing near the opened back door, "Even with your wings folded, they're too large to fit in through the door."

Dean frowned, "I was thinking we get 'im to open his wings up, and we push his closest wing in first, then he hops in and the other wing can go in after that."

Five minutes later and Dean was holding an outstretched wing, ignoring an extremely aggravated angel who seemed to hate the idea of being manhandled, while Sam stood on the other side of the car with the other door open, prepared to catch the wing in case Dean pushed it in the wrong angle. Breaking an angel's wings was also on the list of things Dean never wanted to do, and Cas looked pissed off enough as it was.

As Dean nudged the wing slowly into the car, Cas shuffled along the ground, watching every movement Dean made in fear that he would tug too hard. He did. Cas yelped and out of all things, _growled_, curling his upper lip in an attempt to stifle the pain.

"Sorry, sorry!" Dean repeated quickly, gulping down the lump forming in the back of his throat.

_At least_, he thought, _Cas can at least control his damn wings now._

Dean resumed the task of pulling in his wing into the backseat, Sam already beginning to fold the joint on the other side of the car. It meant he could let go soon and have Cas finally sit down inside, then he would have to push in his other wing.

Doing this, Dean realised it was a prime opportunity to explore his friend's appendages. He never would ask as to him it seemed like the equivalent of approaching a good mate and asking 'hey, mind if I run my hands through your hair? It just looks so good, really'. People don't do that, and Cas was no exception, angel or not. Dean told himself that on a regular basis. But with his hands slipping all over Cas' wing, it couldn't be a crime to have a proper look.

He had to be subtle, but focusing on the texture, Dean realised that they were softer far beyond what he thought. Unlike a bird's feathers, his were soft: talcum powder, marshmallows, silk. The colour matched his vessel's hair, maybe was even a few shades darker. Dean wondered if his wings were the same colour in Heaven when he was in his true form. Black had always been such an ominous colour, but Cas became more majestic at the addition.

Dean had to admit, the wings were pretty damn awesome. He lost concentration on the wing however, finally letting go as it fitted into the Impala.

"We good, Sammy?" Dean asked, wanting to get Cas in the back seat before Cas became fed up with the feeling and the pushing. If only Cas could teleport himself in, but that was impossible as he faced the risk of damaging his wings in the process. They had to be put in manually.

"We're good," Sam called out, "Cas can get in now. Make sure his other wing stays outstretched."

"I know," Dean rolled his eyes, allowing Cas to get inside the car by himself. He wasn't that incompetent. Dean held out his other wing as he did so, knowing he was being threatened at in Enochian. He didn't blame him.

"You good, Cas?"

"No."

"I'm going to push your other wing in now, okay?" Dean said, ignoring Cas' newly found stubbornness, "Try to keep still, 'cause I don't wanna hurt you."

Dean received silence in reply and sighed heavily, beginning to push his wing into the car. He knew he was cramping Cas but once the doors were shut, Cas would probably be able to shift around and find a more comfortable position. He managed to squeeze the wing in, finding it easier than the first one, and only after making sure that the wing was safe, closed the door. Sam closed his door and they both climbed into the front.

"Christ." Dean groaned, rubbing his temples as he started up the car, "Are you okay, Cas?"

"Do I seem okay to you, Dean?" Cas asked maliciously and Sam snorted, only to have his seat taken over by feathers as Cas began to stretch out his wings in the car. Sitting in the centre seat with his wings flared across the back window and curving around to the front, Dean couldn't see a damn thing behind him. Feathers inched themselves along the side of Dean's seat and he felt them brush his arm.

"Dammit Cas, how am I supposed to drive with your wings taking over the car?!" he yelled, slamming his hand on the driving wheel.

"You should have considered this before you stuffed me into a tin box," Cas muttered darkly, unaffected by Dean's anger. Of course, calling Baby a tin box only aggravated him more and before he could curse the angel, he sucked in his breath and closed his eyes momentarily, calming himself.

Doing his best to ignore the feathers now poking into his side closest to the car door – ears, stomach and all – he turned on the car and pulled out onto the road.

This was going to be a long car trip.


	3. Violated and Horny, Apparently

Dean was certain that Castiel had been sexually assaulted by a shifter.

Sam disagreed.

It had to be the only explanation, Dean was sure. Otherwise, Cas wouldn't have looked so violated when they found him – the real him, not the shifter – and wouldn't have disappeared just as quickly. Or slowly. He looked like he was having a bit of trouble leaving, to be perfectly honest. Sure, it was a shock to find a shifter in your body, but that could hardly be a reason for Cas' sudden disappearance. And yes, shifters were a bitch to kill, and even Cas struggled to gank the slippery guy, but it was a common struggle.

Once they had driven back to the motel, Dean brought it up with Sam again.

"I swear, Cas got felt up by the shifter."

"Don't be ridiculous, Dean," Sam sighed, wearing a mature expression that was reserved especially for when Dean was sounding like an idiot.

"But why else would he act like that? Maybe the shifter looked like Cas as well, so that could have been even more of a shock."

Sam rolled his eyes, climbing onto his bed. He propped the pillows up behind him and leant back, placing his hands behind his head, "If the shifter got close enough to do... _that_, then Cas would have stabbed it. He wasn't unarmed. Also, flying."

Dean's eyes widened with realisation, "The wings produce shifter pheromones!"

"That definitely does _not_ happen."

Dean lurched, turning on his heels quickly to find Cas standing directly behind him, the same look of violation written across his face. He twiddled his fingers together nervously, and Dean noticed that his left wing wasn't folding properly. Sam noticed too, frowning, "Did the shifter do something to your wings, Cas?"

Cas paused, "It wasn't the shifter. I wasn't paying attention. It was dark, and it had me cornered outside. I..." he trailed off, averting his eyes in reserved shame. Embarrassment. For some strange reason, Dean loved it when the angel was embarrassed. It was his face. He couldn't explain why.

"What happened, Cas?" Sam asked gently, pressing the angel to continue.

"I spread out my wings. Into a tree."

Dean burst into laughter, holding his stomach as he did so, "A tree?!" he choked out, attempting to suppress his laughs but was failing to do so. Sam scowled angrily, probably criticising him for his lack of compassion, and so he should as Cas only became even more self-aware of himself, looking very ready to disappear from the brothers like he had done before.

Sam stood up, pushing past Dean as he approached Cas, "Turn around. Is anything broken?"

Castiel turned around obediently, "Nothing is broken. There is a small branch lodged in my feathers, and I can't seem to dislodge it."

Sam examined the damaged appendage, tenderly opening the wing to find the damage. Between his primary feathers, Sam found a foot long branch with twigs spurting from it, weaving themselves in an ungraceful knot around his wing. He winced, knowing it was causing the angel discomfort. "How are we going to remove it? It's really tangled."

Dean, who had finally gotten over his laughing fit, peered around Sam's shoulder, "That looks nasty," he smirked, glancing up at the angel who fretfully stared at the brothers from over his shoulder, "I think we gotta clip your feathers."

It was supposed to be a joke, but Cas only jerked, tearing his wing away from Sam's hands with a jerk.

"We are not clipping your feathers, Cas!" Sam groaned, "Dean's just dicking around."

Cas glared at Dean, remaining rooted to the spot. Sam knew that Cas wouldn't be able to fly properly unless the branch was removed so his wing could be healed appropriately, but he was less inclined to be the one doing the removing. The memory of returning to a shaken Cas with his beloved laptop smashed into pieces was still etched into his brain and it was something he couldn't easily forget. He was less comfortable around Castiel's magnificent wings, far less than Dean, who he noticed could never seem to get his eyes off them. He always thought it was Cas that did the staring but since the wings had appeared, Dean had had his eyes glued to them ever since.

"So how do you think we should do it?" Dean asked, "We can't just yank the thing out."

"Slowly and delicately, please." Castiel answered, "But if you put any sort of sharp instrument near my wings I will smite the both of you."

Sam gulped, glancing at Dean for reassurance, "Dean, this is in your capable hands. I'll be your moral support."

Dean only smirked, turning Cas around as he extended the wing. Sam frowned, watching as his brother ran his fingers quickly along the damaged feathers. Strangely intimate, for someone who snarled at anyone daring to invade his personal bubble with the exception of a consenting young and frisky woman. Sam shook his head, brushing away the thought and returned his mind to the matter at hand.

Carefully, Dean slipped his fingers in between the feathers where the branch had latched itself onto. Working one at a time, he began to unravel the twine, making sure not to tug nor pull too harshly. He glanced up once at Cas, checking that the angel was still calm. It was a delicate process, and Dean made sure to keep the freed twine from tangling itself into more of his wing. He couldn't help but remember the touch. Talcum powder. Marshmallows. Silk. Unfortunately, the same thing couldn't be said for the smell, which reminded Dean of dirt and cheap cotton.

In all, it took ten minutes for Dean to properly remove the branch. He slid it out from the wings and tossed it to the floor, straightening the dishevelled feathers with long strokes of his hand. Cas quickly snatched his wing from Dean's hands and without so much of a thanks, disappeared into thin air.

Dean frowned, "That was rude."

"I think he's embarrassed, Dean. He was reluctant enough to let us help. Maybe it's the equivalent of tripping over a step on a staircase."

"Except his looked more painful." Dean picked up the branch, "I'd hate to have this stuck in my back." Without another word, Dean opened the door to dispose of the branch. Sam inhaled, wondering if he should ask about Dean's strange intimacy with Cas. He decided against it, knowing Dean would only become defensive. His brother rarely spoke about his feelings in the first place, even if it did only concern a pair of wings. Maybe it was better to not know what was going on in his brother's head, and whatever he was thinking, it was probably nothing.

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**AN:** I really despise how I wrote this. The words weren't coming to me. A shame. Anyway, I hope you like this instalment once again, and the next chapter I have decided will be a little less humorous and will show the better side of having wings. Reviews appreciated.


	4. The Renaissance Artist

It soon became apparent that demons were just as clueless about an angel's wings as Dean and Sam once were.

Easy job. One demon. Causing mishap in a small town; killed a few teenagers and terrorised a local landowner. Dean and Sam had tracked the demon to where it was residing, an empty shipping container with its red paint rusted and peeling and the inside the colour of damp wood and pale flesh. The smell was far worse than the appearance, blood smeared across the floor and an aroma of off milk sitting in the air.

Dean held his breath, screwing his face up in disgust while Sam held out the demonic blade, ready to stab the demon. The container was empty, they soon realised but it was definitely the demon's lair. The corpse of a boy no older than sixteen lay in front of them, the rigor mortis already set in with his eyes like glass.

"Gross. Let's get out of here. The demon's gotta come back."

Sam nodded, exiting the container before Dean. When Dean stepped out, his breath hitched as he was swooped off his feet, crashing onto the ground beside his brother. Looking around in a dazed fury, his eyes focused on the gangly body of a demon, the black in its eyes staring at both brothers with intention. The blade was in its hand.

"Aren't I lucky?" it cooed, "Caught the Winchester brothers all by myself. I should get a damn medal."

Both Sam and Dean scrambled to their feet, but the demon was quick. It knocked Dean down, but Sam was far bigger than the demon and blocked its blow, towering over the seedy meat suit readily. Stupidly, they were both defenceless with the blade their only protection, and now it was in the hands of their target.

Dean patted his pockets with subtlety, desperately hoping he had a flask of holy water on him even though he knew he hadn't prepared any. His pockets were empty, excluding his gun. Damn. With a second attempt, he hauled his legs up and kicked the demon, knocking its knees forward. It worked, the demon surprised as it toppled onto the cement.

Sam grabbed the demon by the back of its jacket, pulling its head back, "Dean, get the knife!"

The demon struggled in Sam's grip, trying to reach for the knife it had dropped while falling by kicking its limbs in every direction possible. It was just out of the demon's reach. Dean crawled over, snatching the knife but as he did so, the demon slipped out of Sam's grip and bolted in the other direction.

Swearing, Dean tore after the demon with Sam following closely behind. _Getting too old for this_, he thought grumpily as he chased after the demon.

The demon turned a corner and Dean heard a loud shriek and the sudden vacancy of running footsteps. Dean and Sam reached the corner and were blinded by a piercing light. Dean blinked as the light ceased and the demon fell limply to the floor. Castiel stood there, his hand outstretched at where the demon's forehead once was with his wings extended, towering over his body like the dark shadow Dean had seen in the shed.

Cas glanced up, "There are more demons." He said simply.

"What?" Dean blinked, "It was just the one demon."

"There are two others. They are close by. I can smell them." Without another word, Cas disappeared, the sound of flapping wings echoing his absence.

"Shit," Dean muttered, shuffling in the other direction without any particular destination.

Sam walked by his side, "If they're close by, then I doubt they'll beyond the shipping yard fence. We'll split. You take the east side, and I'll go west."

"Who will take the blade, then?" Dean asked, "We've only got the one."

"I take Cas has got our backs," Sam shrugged, "Just go."

Dean nodded and jogged eastwards, sauntering down the abandoned yard while he searched for rogue demons. Sulphur lurked in the air but it didn't narrow down Dean's options. They could be anywhere.

Or so Dean thought, until he heard another scream. Dean ran after the sound, knowing Cas had found a demon or two. It occurred to Dean that he had never heard demons scream – and especially not like that – at the sight of an angel. Demons could fear, but to scream like a whimpering teenager in a haunted house simulator? It didn't happen.

Dean found Castiel and it was only then did he realise why the demons were terrified. Both demons were there, cowering in utter fear as Cas advanced towards them. His wings flared outwards, the black feathers glistening in the twilight. Dean watched, deciding not to interfere.

"Get away! Please!" one of the demons begged, shaking on the ground with tears streaming down its pathetic face, "I'll go back to Hell! Just stay away from me!"

Castiel cocked his head to the side, then without hesitation leaned forward and pressed the palm of his hand to the demon's forehead. The other demon – a female – screamed beside him, watching helplessly as her partner fell limp on the ground. She scampered to her feet, holding her hands out in defence while blabbering on with the same bullshit that the other demon was.

In this instance, Dean saw Cas for who he truly was: this was _Castiel, an Angel of the Lord_. The warrior. The soldier. His raven wings cast an ominous shadow, his eyes fixed and unblinking on the sobbing demon. He pressed his hand to her forehead, and as she slumped onto her knees, she whispered, "I didn't know angels had wings."

Her lifeless body fell to the ground and Cas stood above her and her partner, observing them for a few brief seconds before turning to Dean.

"Demons didn't know, either?"

Castiel shook his head, "The demons are afraid. More so than they have ever been."

Dean smiled, "Well, you look badass. If I were a demon, I'd be scared too."

Cas folded his wings, returning the smile with a twitch in his lips, "I can't let too many demons know about my wings, Dean. They would search for a weakness. I have to be careful."

"Then why did you come here?" Dean asked, walking beside him as they returned to Sam.

"Always here to help the Winchesters," was all he said. And that was enough for Dean.

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**AN:** Meep. I liked the beginning of this, but the ending? Not so much. Anyway, I thought this was a nice change of pace. All ideas for future chapters are encouraged and can be communicated via the lovely review box. Feedback is always appreciated.


	5. Dean Winchester, The Sex Maniac

Dean had always taken Cas' limited range of emotion to his own advantage. He was able to throw innuendo, sass and crack at the angel without receiving too much butthurt in return. Cas didn't understand most a lot of Dean's colloquialism and Dean indulged in the senseless badmouthing of both enemies and friends in a way to let out his pent-up emotions.

If Dean couldn't express his emotions through sex, then verbal defences it was. _Blow me, Cas. Junkless. Nerdy, dorky Sam. Is this going to be another chick flick moment?_ He was good at avoiding the truth about his feelings, so good at it, in fact, that he ceased to remember what he truly felt. He was as talented as lying to those around him as he was to himself. He always found that if people knew what he felt, then he became vulnerable, and his emotions could be used as a weapon against him. Sam was a fine example of this.

What did he feel about Cas? He wasn't sure any more. He had spent a long time lying to himself, and even though Cas had become one of his closest friends he was never able to articulate their relationship. It was unlike the relationship with his brother, but he would feel comfortable calling Cas like a brother. But Cas wasn't his brother. Cas wasn't a Sammy. There were some things he could tell Cas that he could never explain to Sammy. He wasn't sure. He did his best not to dwell on the topic.

But sometimes, his pent-up emotions became too obvious and even Cas tired of Dean's verbal insults. And spending three weeks on the road, driving to the other side of the damn country with little breaks, no sex, and long drives... Dean was more than just on edge by the time they arrived in LA.

Cas met the brothers there, able to fly and refusing to ever set foot near the Impala after the last episode of a desperate attempt to shove ten foot wings inside a low-roofed car. Cas had even organised their hotel room, a feat Dean was unable to understand considering he had little knowledge of money and even more so, credentials. Despite this, Cas had given the boys a nicer room than they had been used to, a two bedroom suite with separate bathrooms and a kitchen with a free minibar. Dean stocked up on the tiny bottles of whiskey and chocolate bars, heading into his room grumpily without a word of thanks to Cas. A pity, considering Cas had looked so pleased at himself for organising something nice for the brothers.

Sam raised an eyebrow, shrugging carelessly, "He's just tired. Driving does that. I'm sure he's grateful, Cas."

"His gratitude seems to be directed towards the sweets and small doses of alcohol," replied Cas dejectedly, and the corners of Sam's lips twitched into a smile.

"Once he's refreshed himself, had a nap, he'll be fine. Remember, Cas, we're both human. We have to recharge."

Cas nodded, planting himself down on a sofa, "I will wait until he _recharges_, then." He spoke the word with mild amusement, and Sam chuckled to himself, heading towards his room for a lie down.

Dean was not fine. He had devoured the minibar and remained equally as grumpy as he had when he had arrived. With little concern, Sam assumed he was having once again, another emotional crisis that he would bottle up and easily forget later. Cas? Less so.

He knocked on Dean's closed bedroom door attentively, "Dean?"

"Fuck off."

Cas blinked. Dean rarely swore at him. He opened the door anyway, his wings bunching up as he squeezed through the doorframe, "Dean." He said with more direction, catching Dean's glare as he was pulled away from the sitcom on TV.

Dean lay sprawled across the double bed, empty wrappers littered around him in an ungraceful heap, "What do you want?" he snapped, wiping crumbs of his previous treat over his shirt. It was amazing how much of a slob Dean was when he wanted to be.

"Will we simply leave hunting until you feel better?" Cas asked, choosing his words carefully. Even so, he feared his tone still had a trace of cynicism.

Dean raised his hand, making an obscene gesture at his friend. Cas narrowed his eyes, "Are you only interested in saving people when it suits you? Because despite a large pack of Vetalas eating away at the core of Downtown Los Angeles, you seem far more interested in cheap TV and food."

Dean scowled, "I have been driving for three weeks, Cas. Give me twelve fucking hours to myself. Is that so much to ask?"

"No, but your attitude is hardly necessary."

"My _attitude?_" Dean snorted, "Now you sound like every tight-lipped mother that no one likes. Get the stick out of your ass."

Cas ignored Dean's insults, "It has been the general consensus that when one is tired, he sleeps. And you are not sleeping."

"Like you even understand anything about humans. Not so one directional all the damn time, you idiot," he paused, and Cas gulped as Dean's eyes hardened, knowing he had more to say that wouldn't be pleasant, "You can't even experience anything human. You're a billion year old virgin; isn't that pathetic?"

Cas swallowed, but his throat was dry. He clenched his fists together, "Stop," he murmured quietly, "You don't mean that."

Dean's scowl transformed into a smirk, "Sure I do. Girls flirt at you and you look at them like they're some alien. Do you even know what your own dick looks like? Oh wait, I forgot, angels don't even have dicks."

Cas could feel the anger rising from inside him, and he knew if he didn't keep it under control he could injure Dean. He had little idea on why Dean was attacking him like that: Dean was perfectly aware about Cas' disinterest, but it had never been a bad thing, not before, not like this. What Dean was doing was cruel. But he was beginning to understand why. He had to take his emotional frustrations out on someone, and from observing humans, it appeared he needed... _release_.

"Dean," Cas said, "Dean, stop."

"Why? Because you can never get some? Because you don't know what the hell to do with a pair of tits even when they're shoved right in your face?"

It was becoming all too much for Cas. In the fraction of a second, Cas shot out his wing, slamming it into Dean's face and he swore, growling in surprised alarm. Not another moment past, and Cas had disappeared.

Sam ran into Dean's room, seeing the blood running down Dean's broken nose, "What the hell happened?"

"Son of a bitch broke my damn fucking nose!" Dean yelled, "That's what!"

Later that night, Sam dragged Dean into one of the local bars. Being the wingman to his grumpy brother proved difficult, but Dean instantly lightened up once presented with a lady willing to spend the night shagging a stranger.

Cas, on the other hand, never returned to help them with the case. Sam had a feeling Dean said some pretty nasty things, but he assumed he would never find out. At least Dean felt guilty.

* * *

**AN:** I hope everyone gets the reason behind this chapter. To make things clearer, Dean defends himself by picking up everyone else's flaws. He uses Cas' asexuality against him. Dean expresses his emotions better physically, and usually does this through sex. Dean without sex = lots of emotions, including anger. With sex, that emotion can be transformed into a safer form otherwise it becomes dangerous and turns into rage and anger and obviously, Cas doesn't understand it too well.

The initial idea for this chapter was 'Cas purposely hits Dean with his wing', which could have been funny but I chose not to. Next one will be more light-hearted, I promise.

Feedback good.


	6. Everyone Loves Nathan Fillion

It had been raining for two weeks.

The torrential weather refused to ease, roads remained closed, areas became flooded, and the Winchesters found themselves stuck. The ceiling of their motel room leaked constantly, Dean forced to sleep on the sofa as his bed was underneath one of the cracks. It was hardly any use attempting to drive. Noon was as dark as midnight, the thick fog refused to rise and the small bodies of water forming in the roads were transforming into rivers.

It was simply Mother Nature playing out her role. There were earthquakes, hurricanes and bush fires, and the unrelenting rain was no different. It was forecast to rain for another two weeks. There was nothing the boys could do, nothing supernatural about a weather phenomenon, but it didn't stop them from complaining.

Dean's phone clogged with water.

Similarly, Sam's laptop was underneath a leak. It stopped working.

Baby had mould growing on the rim of her windows. Dean was devastated.

Bringing food back from the convenience store was the daily nightmare, and Dean was even more devastated to find his beloved pie declared inedible, Sam unable to protect each shopping bag while making the run back to the motel. Dean repaid his brother with soggy 'rabbit food'. It was not a pretty sight.

All in all, both brothers were bitter.

Dean had made a home of his couch, snuggling in the three quilts draped over the fabric, four pillows tucked underneath him with a small table right beside him, filled with food, Jack and porn. Sam was disgusted by his brother's habits, but after two weeks of staying in a leaky room, he could empathise. He wondered how long it had been since Dean had even left his fortitude of comfort.

Lazily, he flicked through the channels, eventually pausing on a repeat of a Joss Whedon show. _Firefly_, or something. Ignoring Dean, who was casually flicking through _Busty Asian Beauties_, he focused on the episode, trying to work out which character was which, who the Alliance was... It was slowly making more sense as he continued watching.

"Hey, you gonna go buy more food?" Dean asked, interrupting Sam.

Sam exhaled deeply, growing frustrated, "How about you buy the food, this time? I've been doing it for the last week."

"I'm your big brother. Do as I say."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam paused momentarily, realising Dean, despite having devoured a roast chicken, two apple pies and an entire crate of candy, was still hungry for more food. "Why is it that when you have nothing to waste your time with, you default to food?"

"Food's good." Dean noted, "Can't criticise me for something that ain't wrong."

Sam pursed his lips, "I'm still not buying you more junk. If you want anything, you can peel away those layers you're hiding underneath." Sam got up, crossing the room to Dean who tensed. Sam tugged on the doona but Dean snatched it back.

"I'm not wearing any pants."

"You sicken me." Sam groaned, letting go immediately. Returning to his bed, he focused back to the television, doing his very best to ignore Dean's presence.

Dean, on the other hand, grew agitated by the leaks, dripping from the ceiling onto the half-full bucket on what was once his own bed. Each fat drop held its own sound, echoing within its plastic surround and the rhythm remained uninterrupted as droplets continued to fall down. Dark stains were forming around the cracks in the ceiling.

After giving the plastic bucket that had stolen his bed a well-deserved scowl, he glanced around the room with haste: All food within reach had been eaten; the rain pounding on the rackety window increased, causing Sam to turn the volume up on the television; and the fridge was too far away. If Dean wanted food, he would have to take the initiative.

With a loud groan, he thrust his hands underneath him, searching for his jeans that he had discarded a while ago. His hand brushed against a crusty sock. It wasn't pleasant. Pushing the sock towards the end of the sofa, he found his jeans which had been lodged in between the two cushions. Dean was acutely aware that Sam was silently judging him from afar, so he attempted to be as subtle as possible to put on his jeans, although dressing yourself with two heavy doonas constricting your movement proved to be far more difficult than Dean expected. In all, it took ten minutes for the simple task to be completed.

Finally, he rolled out of his layers, stretching his back like a man who had recently been healed of paralysis. He heard a slight intake of air from Sam; of course the guy was trying not to laugh. Finding a clean pair of socks, he pulled them on, mentally reminding himself to buy tissues, before slipping into his shoes. Adjusting his shirt, he snatched Sam's wallet off the kitchen counter and the still-damp umbrella leaning against the front door, "I'll be back soon."

Dean jogged down the hallway, opening the door to his fate. He stood outside, his only protection being the small shade cloth across the front. He was already feeling the rain spraying over him, the wind strong. Opening his umbrella, he began the trek towards the convenience store.

How could there be so much damn rain?! Rain spat in Dean's eyes and with each hurried step a gallon of water sprayed onto the back of his jeans while the wind made the umbrella pointless. He wouldn't have stopped worried, if the sight of familiar black feathers caught his eye. Stopping in the middle of the empty road, he peered into the fog to see wings of a familiar friend becoming soaked in the rain.

Knowing there was no use in avoiding the rain, considering Dean was drenched as it was, he jogged towards Cas, halting a few yards behind him. He frowned at the sight, wondering what on earth the angel was up to.

Similar to a fly rubbing its feet together, Cas rubbed both dripping wings together rapidly, only moments later to spread out his wings and shake them quickly. He repeated the task, Dean thinking he looked more ridiculous by the second. Then Dean frowned, cocking his head to the side as he realised what Cas was doing.

"Feeling squeaky clean, Cas?" Dean called out.

Cas turned around instantly, his wings frozen. Dean couldn't help but laugh, noticing his shocked expression. He jogged up to Cas, who stared at him with horror, "You're like one of those little sparrows. Fluffin' your wings up like that."

"It was raining. Wings are hard to maintain. I took the opportunity." Cas grumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his soaking trench coat.

"Right," Dean said, "Let's get undercover. Good thing no one is here, or you'd get weird looks from people."

Cas shrugged, following Dean to the other side of the road where there was shelter. The majority of shops were closed, except for – thankfully – the convenience store.

Once under shelter, Dean was sprayed with even more water, Cas deciding it was the best time to shake his wings. Dean spluttered, "Urgh. Dude."

"I'll wait here for you," Cas replied, ignoring Dean's complaint. With a groan, Dean entered the store, picking up treats, snacks, drink, porn and food. He snatched a box of tissues, too, throwing them all on the counter, feeling vaguely sorry for the man at the register. He didn't look too happy to be working.

Taking the plastic bags, he walked back outside, only to find himself standing in the middle of his motel room. Cas stood behind him.

"Give me some notice, Jesus Christ," Dean muttered, dumping the bags on the kitchen counter.

Sam glanced up at them both. He was still watching _Firefly_, "Hey Cas. You look cold."

Dean snorted, "He was havin' a bath, Sammy."

Sam frowned, "What?"

"It is the easiest way, Dean!" Cas retaliated, "My wings require special attention."

Dean only laughed, unpacking the food. Without any shame, he stocked up his small table by his sofa, replacing his old porn mag with a new one, dumping the box of tissues on top. He would need to clean that sock.

Cas looked confused. It was clear he didn't have much of an idea about Dean's habits, but he gathered it was something he had no interest in, judging by Sam's disgusted expression. "When are you two going to leave this place?"

"As soon as the rain eases," Sam answered, "We aren't happy being here."

"I'm starting to like it," Dean piped up, crawling back into the fortress of solitude. Cas, who hadn't seen what Dean had done with the sofa, stared at him with confusion before the corners of his lips twitched into a slight smile. Any sight of a usually buff and muscular man who did his best to assert his masculinity was always a laugh when he was snuggled in between layers of floral doonas.

"Dean, you don't stop complaining."

"I wouldn't complain if you had just bought more food instead of making me get up."

Sam rolled his eyes, glancing to Cas, "So what brings you here?"

Cas shifted uncomfortably, "No reason. You two boys offer good company."

Dean grinned, "I know."

Sam, considering himself the nicer brother, offered Cas a drink and a seat. For the rest of the night, Sam and Cas bonded over the wonders of _Firefly_ while Dean guzzled down Smirnoff and devoured an entire apple pie independently. Dean had kicked off his pants too, enjoying his new found love of freedom.

Thankfully, all three decided to forget their last encounter. Dean was happy, Cas was... Cas, and Sam wasn't going to bring up something that could make their moods vanish. Who knew, that it took two weeks of torrential weather to bring a bit of joy. Sure, there were complaints, there was a leaky ceiling, and mould in the Impala, but other than that, it was alright. They were cut off from the world, and they could simply enjoy each other's company without the weight of responsibility hanging off them.

Then Dean found the crusty sock and forgot he wasn't wearing pants.

* * *

**AN:** I wasn't really aiming for laughs and pranks with this chapter. The bullet point in my notebook was 'Cas washing his wings - birdlike' so I simply incorporated that into this. I simply find the idea of Cas doing that amusing, and plausible.

If you didn't get the last line, it means Dean finds his jizz sock, remembers he wants to put it in the laundry/wash basket, gets up to do so, then by that stage he realises he's not wearing pants. Poor Sam. Less so Cas, considering he reconstructed Dean so I doubt he has issues.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter. More prompts would be good, because I am ticking off my list fairly quickly. Any suggestions to improve this story? I'm liking the progress but I don't know how far I should go. I'm wondering if I should maybe put more Destiel in it - because I can do that - or if it is good as it is. Suggestions, man. Good stuff.


	7. Balsamic Ice Cream is Surprisingly Nice

Dean would never openly admit it, but he adored the days where his brother and his best friend could simply enjoy their own existence. He loved the weeks where they could pretend there was no great weight hanging off their shoulders, how they weren't enemies of every supernatural creature. It was nice. He liked pretending that they all had very generic lives. Sam had continued at college, in this universe. He had become a successful lawyer, and he and Jess were married, and they visited Dean often. Dean figured it was most rational if he lived with Cas. They were roommates. Dean was a mechanic, and Cas was always in between jobs. On Saturdays, Sam and Jess would share a roast dinner with Dean and Cas. They'd listen to old rock on the wireless and watch reruns of _M*A*S*H_. They'd share a few beers and tell each other how their week had been, and when least expecting it Jess would announce that she was pregnant. Everyone would smile and Sam would be so proud, and he'd ask Cas to be the kid's godfather. It was nice.

And that was it, really. _Nice_. Dean didn't have another word for it; everything else was too superficial, too sensationalist. Later, he would have a laugh at himself for even thinking of the very idea of normality – his best friend was an _angel_; that punched normality in the face. But it was a dream, an idea. It was unattainable.

But there were always moments.

Curled up on the moth-eaten couch of another dingy motel room sharing a bottle of Jack under the glow of the light soft, the trio relaxed: Cas sat in the centre, knees level and feet on the floor, while Sam had his legs swooped over the arm of the couch, resting his back on a pillow he had stolen from his bed and propped against Cas' side. Dean, on the other side, tucked his legs underneath him, his head nodding off onto Cas' shoulder as the time ticked past. The TV was small and the screen had a black mark in the centre, but they could still enjoy the late-night movie: a Clint Eastwood classic that Dean was delighted to watch, pointing out his favourite moments to Cas. Throughout the movie, he'd glance Cas' way, searching for acknowledgement, hoping he was enjoying himself as much as Dean was.

Dean found it ironic that it was a moment like this that Dean regarded normal, and Cas had his wings spread out and around both Winchesters. Dean was beginning to warm up to the nickname of _Mother Hen_. Cas didn't like it.

It was 1.39am, Dean's eyelids were drooping and Sam had already fallen asleep, somehow comfortable in the restricted position he was in, head tucked into his neck and arms resting on his chest. There wasn't long until the movie finished.

Yawning, he gave in, making himself comfortable on Cas' shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he could see Cas' lips twitch into a small smile. If he was less tired, more sober, he may have reconsidered his choice but right then, he couldn't have cared less. People probably did this all the time in their normal lives.

His eyelids shut briefly and he welcomed it, gradually easing onto Cas' side as sleep kicked in, and he reached out an arm around Cas' front, breathing softly, slowly. Then he felt it, the softness, the silk and the marshmallows and the talcum powder, gingerly brushing across him. He no longer felt cold.

That was nice. With his other arm, he entwined his fingers into the feathers, stroking them sleepily. He yawned again, and he was well on to his way to sleep. He felt Cas' heartbeat pulsing into his arm; regular, paced, calm. Dean saw static, and felt the rise and fall of his body. It was soothing. He wondered if this was what normal people did: appreciated each other's company without needing to say anything. And he smiled, because somehow he had taken Cas' wings as normal, and they could still fit into Dean's dream.

His dreams were a cluster of moments, slurring together and without direction: Cas deciding he didn't enjoy the flavour of strawberry and balsamic vinegar mixed with banana and salted caramel ice cream; a double greasy hamburger; Sammy humming _Crime of the Century_ underneath his breath; a rusty bridge and a kiss. He couldn't make sense of what his subconscious pieced together but he had gone past the point of caring. _Why_ care? He saw his Sammy, he saw his Cas.

And with the three of them, together, on the same couch, Dean imagined the image in his head. Team Free Will. He saw calm content in Sam's peaceful snore, he saw adoration from Cas towards the two brothers, wings protecting them while they slept, and he saw himself, holding Cas and knowing he would never be abandoned, knowing that Cas would never give up on Dean and would always be the one there for _him_.

He liked that. It was nice.

* * *

AN: I haven't updated in a while because school has started again. And also, I am going to shamelessly abuse my privilege of AN, by crying about 8x02. Oh my God. Destiel. It's so canon. That's fucking The Notebook right there. Jeremy Carver, you are a God and I love you. I'm crying. Seriously. jfc it was so beautiful with the dialogue and auuggghhhh i am a lump of cry

Uh, back to the chapter. This started out as something different then I decided to make it this because I am overwhelmed with Destiel feels. So enjoy this. It's not much. I am writing another one though. Hope you like. Reviews are nice x


	8. Pest Control

Some animals had peculiar ways of dealing with simple tasks. A cat, for example, will rub itself along any rough surface to cure an itch. The cat had no other choice as it lacked the rotating shoulders most humans had to scratch.

Apparently, birds involved themselves in the same process.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" Dean stared in disbelief, watching his usually stoic friend fanning his wings across the brick wall. He glanced around quickly, thankful that it was too late for strangers to accidentally come across a man who owned giant, black wings.

Castiel couldn't have cared less about Dean's reaction, continuing to vigorously rub his feathers along the rough surface. Dean wondered if it were possible for angels to get gravel rash. The wall was etched with sharp imperfections from the rocky brick. Castiel rotated his wings, rubbing his shoulder blades over the wall while he indulged in the temporary relief.

"Cas!" Dean snapped with edge, confused at his friend's actions. It was a rare sight to see Castiel acting bizarrely.

Castiel narrowed his eyes with obvious irritation, "This is none of your concern. You don't understand the difficulties of wings."

"Then explain!"

Cas sighed heavily, temporarily pausing, "Everything is... uncomfortable. Itchy. I can't exactly reach, so this is my only option."

Dean suppressed a snort and raised an eyebrow, "Itchy? Since when do angels get an itch?"

"Apparently, now." Cas grumbled, flaring his wings up once again. Dean stopped him quickly, pulling him from the wall as he inspected Castiel's frayed feathers that had become messy and dishevelled. He ran his hand through a few feathers, and they quivered. Then he saw it.

Dean jumped back, wiping his hands against the wall, "Jesus Christ!" he blasphemed, "Cas!"

"What?" Castiel frowned, glancing towards Dean with mild concern.

"You've got fleas!"

"_What?_"

And so, Dean found himself at Wal-Mart, searching for an appropriate flea-killer while Castiel was thrown into the Winchester's empty room. Thankfully, they had only very recently arrived and had not yet unpacked. Sam was out at the records department for their case (a few dead uni students, possibly werewolf attacks) and Dean figured he had a few more hours before Sam was exposed to the contamination. Finding a bottle that claimed it would kill 'fleas and other nasties on all domestic birds', Dean bought it with cash and drove back to the motel, clocking 20 miles over the speed limit.

When he returned, he found Cas busying himself on the carpet. Dean snorted, "Get up, Birdie. Take your damn clothes off. You're getting the full treatment. I don't want no fleas or any other shit you've picked up lurking around me."

"Clothes off...?" Castiel echoed hesitantly, picking himself up off the floor. His wings quivered once again with an unstoppable itch. Dean pitied the poor guy, knowing he didn't know any better. Clean or not, anyone could potentially pick up fleas.

"Yeah. Be quick. I don't want Sammy walkin' in while I'm buttering you up." Dean frowned, realising what he just said. He shivered.

Nervously, Castiel discarded his trench coat and loosened his tie – a tie that Dean had never seen facing the right way – before kicking off his shoes and socks. Dean sat down on the edge of one of the double beds, reading over the instructions once again while he waited for Castiel to remove his clothes.

Dean had a feeling he was supposed to cringe at the idea of lathering cream over a man's body – and wings. He wondered why he had no quarrels about seeing Castiel almost naked, excluding a pair of briefs. Or boxers; whatever Jimmy Novak preferred.

Soon, Castiel stood before Dean – aha! Orange briefs! – with a look of utter terror written over his face. For someone who had reconstructed Dean from each separate particle, and watched over humans for millions of years, he was certainly self-conscious about his vessel.

Dean ordered him into the bathroom, pushing him down into the dry basin of the bathtub. His wings were problematic, their immense size taking up the majority of the space in the small room. Dean closed the toilet lid and sat down, opening the lid.

"You hit me in the face with a wing, I'll clip both your wings, ya hear me?" Dean threatened, remembering all too clearly the last time he had been hit. A broken nose!

Castiel nodded stiffly, remaining quiet. He hadn't said a word since taking off his clothes.

Carefully, Dean poured the oily cream onto his palms before fingering Cas' wings. He held the wing across his lap, carefully dispersing the cream across each section. He saw the fleas scuttle around, and hoped to God they'd be dead before they decided to migrate into Dean's trousers. As he rubbed the stuff in, the wing quivered and shook, and Castiel creased his brow with unsettlement, holding back the urge to rub his wing.

With a glance at Castiel, Dean finished the first wing, pushing it off his lap, "Let the stuff settle for a while. I'll do the other wing, and then we wash it off, okay? Then I'll do your skin so we know for certain that we've killed the bitches."

Castiel merely nodded again, shuffling in the tub so Dean could repeat the process on his other wing. It took a good twenty minutes. With amusement, his wings hadn't lost their soft touch. It was still the same, even with fleas having a rave party. Dean remembered when he first saw Castiel with wings, how majestic they made his angel appear and how dreadfully much he dreamed of caressing his wings.

He didn't tell anybody else that.

_We've all got our kinks_, he told himself. Then he told Cas to stand up, and he unlatched the showerhead from its clamp and turned the taps. He ran the water through Castiel's feathers, washing out the cream with his free hand. "Feeling better, Feathers?"

"I think."

"Right. We'll clean up the water later. Just get your wings out of the way and we'll do your skin."

"Uh." Castiel shifted once again, spreading his wings along the walls of the confined bathroom. Dean clamped the showerhead back on and stepped into the basin of the shower, coaxing Castiel as he rubbed his palms together.

He started with Castiel's arms first. He was a lot broader than what he had thought; his height was off-putting. His biceps were firm and built, with broad shoulders and enough hair to confirm he was definitely a dude. When Dean advanced to his torso, he flashed back to the Apocalypse, where Cas had unbuttoned his shirt and carved an angel-banishing sigil into his chest. Castiel had narrow hips and a snail trail.

"Nice pants." Dean quipped, crouching down to begin on his legs. Well shit, the guy had good thighs.

"They are Jimmy Novak's." Castiel responded.

Dean shrugged, "You should wear orange more often. I'll buy you some more clothes. The old suit must get a bit boring after a while, don't you think?" Dean rubbed the cream into his thighs, feeling dirty. There he was, exploiting his poor, baby angel and mentally complimenting his thighs. To be fair, they really were very well-toned thighs.

Finishing, he stood up and washed Castiel down. Soon, Cas was dripping, looking more than slightly violated. "I don't like this, Dean."

Dean laughed, taking both complimentary towels from the rack, "I'll dry you off. The fleas should all be dead. Maybe you'll need another shower to wash off the remaining dead ones." He led Castiel back into the larger room, not caring about getting water everywhere. It would dry. He threw a towel at Castiel, using the other one to dry his wings for him.

"Just dry your legs and arms. I got your wings."

Castiel obeyed silently, but was soon clean and dry, save for his damp hair and wings. Dean discarded the towels, throwing them carelessly on the floor in the bathroom before winking at Cas, "Wasn't so hard, was it?"

Castiel shook his head, pausing, "Thank you, Dean."

"No problem. Get your clothes back on. Wouldn't want Sammy catching a surprise look at your junk."

Unfortunately, just as Dean had finished his sentence, the door swung open and Castiel almost fainted, but not as much as Dean who yelped in terrified shock.

"What the _hell_?!" Sam stared at both men: Cas almost naked, damp hair and ruffled feathers; Dean damp and looking like he had been caught out. Sam put two and two together, "Did you have sex with Cas?!"

"I didn't have sex with Cas, Jesus Christ! I'm straight, you piece of shit!"

"You tried to have sex with Cas!"

"I did _not_ try to have sex with Cas!" Before Dean could explain, Sam was rattling off accusations only to halt suddenly. Castiel's clothes and Castiel himself had both disappeared.

Dean scowled, "You scared him off, bitch."

"Jerk."

* * *

**AN:** This was extremely fun to write. Sorry for the late update, though. I have been performing at the Sydney Opera House all week and weekend come, I finally have some free time (: Anyone have Halloween suggestions? I don't know much about Halloween, since we don't celebrate it in Aus, but I still would like to write a Halloween-themed chapter.

Also, s8e03: okay that's really nice but where's cas? jesus christ i am going insane they leave us with that huge fucking cliffhanger and i get this? no i joke it was actually a good episode, and it reminds me of the good old days. and sammy! auughh i have sammy feels. Tbh, i like sam more than dean. and wow, what a character arc for dean, considering he was obsessed with having sex when he returned from hell but returning from purgatory he ROLLS HIS EYES at a strip club. my bbu. daddy ackles was cute, there should have been more.


	9. American Gods

Castiel lay flat on Dean's unused bed, staring blankly at the cracks in the ceiling. He hadn't moved for twenty minutes. Dean didn't blame him, considering what he had been subject to, but he hadn't expected sexual confrontation to terrify the angel to the point of catatonia.

Sam figured the angel simply needed some quiet time, and he busied himself into his laptop, reading archives of their recently slaughtered old god. Dean, on the other hand, could only invest so much time into food before boredom and set in and he found himself restless and fidgety.

He glanced towards Castiel, whose face was deep-set with his forehead furrowed in concentration. He cupped his hands together on his chest and his feet dangled off the edge of the double bed. The bed offered the _magic fingers_ services, but Dean had a feeling if he were to slyly insert a quarter, the angel would attempt a small town massacre. Maybe the vibrations would remind him of his scarring experience.

They had been looking into mysterious disappearances. There were two links between the four victims: all were male and all had been sighted with a similarly described prostitute before their disappearance. The whore was a street-walker, unregistered and unheard of. Only a few had really seen her, but for someone who roamed the streets basically asking to be raped, she didn't look like a meth head like most of the other hookers. Of course, the hooker was difficult to track and it was only when they had her cornered, did they realise what they were dealing with.

Castiel found her first. He would have sliced her, if she hadn't wooed him first. The Queen of Sheba, a forgotten god from a forgotten civilisation. When Sam and Dean had barged into the room, the poor angel was being dry-humped by the god, begging to be worshipped.

"_We all have our kinks, baby. Worship me. With your heart and your soul and give me everything. It just gets me off, baby," she whispered in his ear._

_She got a flushed babble in response, Castiel's cheeks burning red while his blue eyes stared at her breasts, mesmerised by their shape and how her tits were mere inches away, so easy to touch and suck. Then he stared at her lips and considered what kissing was like. She rocked atop of his hips gingerly and slid her hands underneath his shirt. She felt for his nipples._

"_I worship your body..." Castiel murmured with hesitation, feeling utter adoration for the stranger. He didn't know why he said it. He had never needed nor considered a sexual experience, but every time her crotch rocked against the fabric of his pants he felt more of an urge. _

"_Yeah, like that, baby," she cooed, slipping one hand below his belt while the other massaged his nipples. _

_Then the door slammed open. Dean ran in, a stake in his hands held high to dive it into her chest. Sam followed, dragging Castiel off the bed while Dean wrestled with Bilqis. She screamed as the stake pierced her chest, and she began to curse but her words were muffled by the blood emptying from her mouth._

Castiel hadn't said a word. Sam had tried to get something out of him but he merely flew away, and the brothers found him on Dean's bed. Still nothing.

Dean smiled, slightly. It was one way to get Castiel sexually active. He wasn't precisely sure how far Bilqis had gone with him before he ganked her. He was certain Castiel got a handjob, and silently applauded the guy. However, the bitch was disgusting in the fact that she pleaded for worshipping so she could consume her subjects. Dean wasn't happy to learn that the Queen consumed her worshippers through her vagina. Poor Cas.

Dean sighed and glanced to Castiel. Same position. No movement.

"Cas?" Dean tried, but there was no response. Sam's eyes darted towards Dean, telling him with a look that trying was a failed cause. Dean shrugged, "Wanna watch some TV? Go grab a bite to eat?"

Castiel blinked. At least he was conscious. Dean was under the impression Castiel was purposely ignoring Dean. "C'mon, Cas. There's no need being such a damn prude all the time. Not your fault the god targeted you. Heck, coulda happened to any one of us."

Cas sat up instantly, and Dean frowned with surprise. Sam shared Dean's thoughts. "Dean, she _touched_ me."

Dean snorted, "Big whoop. People touch other people all the time. Get used to it."

"But she..." Castiel trailed off, attempting to explain to Dean, "It wasn't a normal touch. Not like a handshake or a pat on the shoulder."

This was ridiculous. Dean sniggered, only for both Sam and Castiel to glare at him. He knew it. The bitch got a handjob. He smirked and stood up, "Who cares what kind of touch it was? It's sort of a human thing. Not like she hurt you, not really." Dean edged closer to the bed, and Castiel kept his eyes glued to Dean with suspicion.

Suddenly, Dean jumped Cas, pinning him down to the bed. Then he started tickling Cas, his sides, underarms, stomach. Castiel shrieked, his voice jumping two octaves and even better, his wings flared out and one went right into Sam. Sam yelled, "Jesus Christ!" Sam swatted at the wing angrily, only to be hit by the flapping appendage as Castiel let out forced laughter.

"Stop it!" Castiel yelled between laughs but Dean only grinned, continuing. Castiel jerked and his wings continued flapping, Sam having his own wrestling match with the giant wing. Finally, Castiel pushed Dean off and he toppled onto the floor, holding his stomach in his own amused chuckles. Castiel panted and folded his wings, staring at Dean with wide eyes.

"How's that for touching?" Dean snickered.

Castiel grumbled something inaudible, then said, "Assbutt."

Dean had no idea how long it had been since he had laughed for so long. Even Castiel smiled.

Unfortunately, Sam wasn't impressed and confiscated tickling. Oh well. Dean didn't mind. It was an excuse to see Castiel's wings in action and it was always amusing to watch someone so stoic giggle like a twelve-year-old girl. Just like Bilqis had said: _we all have our kinks_.

* * *

**AN:** This was inspired by two things. One, American Gods by Neil Gaiman. Bilqis is actually a good god, but she had a really nasty kink. But she needed it to survive. Anyway. Then there was some fanart of Dean tickling Cas, and Sam was angry because he had wing in his face but Castiel was just cracking. It was amusing, so I had to write that out.

So here you have it.

I think the next chapter will have Castiel in a fight. A proper one. Using his wings and all. Then, Halloween special!

Ideas and prompts are always welcome. Reviews, too.


	10. Happy Belated Halloween

Everything was pumpkins.

That is to say, within a week, every single suburb within every city within every state had been transformed into a plastic jungle of tombstones and cottonwool, fake blood smeared over front windows, rubber limbs sprawled over lawns and deformed monsters of fibreglass and Perspex looming over the front door. Every store was engulfed by Halloween sweets and cheap props, and children ran rampant in desperate need of the _best_ costume.

Dean enjoyed playing _how fucking wrong did everyone get their monsters on a scale of one to bed sheet-ghost. _Strangely enough, it was the one time of the year where he felt he could believe that the monsters weren't real, and they merely were latex masks and polyester capes bought off eBay. As a kid, he always used to scoff at his peers for dressing up to trick-or-treat but as a teenager he had indulged in the house parties and usually spent his time getting laid.

Then, Halloween had slipped from his mind completely as the years went by. He saw the same get-ups and costumes but he never paid much attention. Of course, most years, he didn't have an angel with ten foot wings.

"I have spent millennia watching your kind, but I still fail to understand what is so exciting about Halloween," Castiel said delicately, watching a small group of children scuttle by, clutching their plastic pumpkin jars that were already overflowing with candy.

"Came from some old story, didn't it? Gotta dress up so you won't get eaten...?"

Dean was sure he had phrased that better in his head, receiving a strange look from a confused Cas, obviously seen from his tilted head.

"Look, doesn't matter. Just enjoy the freedom," Dean said. With a shrug, Castiel walked along the pavement, glancing towards the spookified houses. Dean walked alongside him, glancing at his face for any sort of emotional recognition, unsure of what he was searching for. Amusement? Morbid curiosity? Maybe even disgust?

Rather, Castiel, being so typically Castiel, bore the face of a brick wall. It was almost laughable.

Suddenly, a small child, maybe only six, accidentally bumped into Cas' legs as he ran along the path. He blinked, staring upwards to the obstruction, but his face lightened immediately, "Wow, cool wings!"

"Uh, thank you...?" Castiel shifted uncomfortably, and the child skipped off to catch up with his friends.

"You gotta fan," Dean sniggered, nudging Castiel's arm. "This is what I mean. Everyone's going to think you've just got some fancy costume strapped onto your back. In reality, you're a badass angel of the Lord who kicks demon butt."

Castiel's brow furrowed with concentration, and Dean could only assume he was deep in thought. "The holiday makes me wonder how many other supernatural creatures there are, wandering through the suburbs like myself, hidden in plain sight."

"I don't know." Dean never really considered what true monsters would be doing on their night of fame. Maybe they were having house parties of their own, getting high off acid and hooking up with the first thing that crossed its path. Interspecies relationships couldn't be that uncommon.

Walking along the row of houses, Castiel was uncomfortable. Children skipped by and slutty teens swaggered to their parties, sex and alcohol on their minds. Parents would occasionally watch over their children, but were far more content socialising with their neighbours, discussing the latest scandalous affair in the next block while sharing a cheap bottle of wine.

Dean sighed, "Hey, there's a park around here. Probably a bit quieter than here. Wanna go there?"

Castiel nodded once, "I'd like that."

The park was empty, save a buzzing streetlamp and a forgotten football. Dean planted himself down on a bench, expecting Castiel to sit beside him, but was surprised to find him standing underneath the yellow glow of the light. He looked up and his face shone, shadows accentuated and wings glistening black. Then his wings unfolded and flared outwards, and Castiel inhaled the smell of petrichor while every feather glowed in the fluorescence.

Dean stared in awe, being reminded once again how powerful, how wonderfully _divine_ Castiel truly was. He smiled, and the angel remained motionless momentarily, shutting his eyes with the freedom to stretch his wings. No concern over who saw. At Halloween, everyone could be supernatural.

With a content sigh, Castiel folded his wings and walked over to Dean. He sat down next to him and without so much of a glance, stretched one wing around Dean.

"Aw man, you're touchin', you know that?" Dean said, voice laced with sarcasm even though he was flattered by the gesture. He twiddled his thumbs together.

The corner of Castiel's lips twitched into a smile, saying nothing. Instead, Castiel leaned back and his eyes scanned the night sky, and Dean wondered if he was thinking of home. Heaven. That was where Castiel had true freedom, he supposed, able to stretch his wings and speak in Enochian. Of course, there was the possibility that when Castiel was in his true form, his wings would take on a different form too. He always imaged Castiel to have an ethereal, majestic look in heaven, with a roughly humanoid shape but skeletal and white, eyes the colour of Lazurite.

Dean gazed upwards, too, trying to imagine what Cas was seeing: the creation of every star; the home above; each galaxy a miracle and every speck in the universe merely a second away, known to Castiel like the back of his hand. And wasn't it a miracle, that out of every insignificant dot in the universe, it was Dean that Castiel gave everything for.

"Happy Halloween, Cas," Dean said, breaking his gaze from the sky. Castiel caught his eyes, and the two of them locked stares.

"Happy Halloween, Dean."

* * *

**AN:** I lied. You are just getting a good ol' bit of Halloween. Then stuff later. In my justification, I have recently been assigned the date of my piano exam and I am freaking the fuck off, practising roughly 3-4 per day. So. You know.

I don't really know a lot about Halloween, being Australian and all. I just go to parties and we... don't really celebrate Halloween. Hah.

I also had little direction with this. Spur of a moment. I didn't want to make it complex. And let's just go with the idea that Sam is chillin' in their motel room, watching Tim Burton movies or something.

Really thought I should also say: thanks for wonderful reviews and many follows! Means a lot, and thanks for your constant support (:


	11. That One Bi-Curious Pubescent Couple

"Get the stick out of your ass, Cas!" Dean whined, tugging at Castiel's sleeve like a young child begging for his mother to buy candy. Castiel declined apathetically, explaining he had duties up in Heaven, of course, leaving out what his duties exactly were.

Sam just sat there, watching the pair from the opposite side of the diner booth with amusement. He considered mentioning to Dean later that he should reconsider his sexuality, as Dean had failed in seducing the blonde doll of a waitress, but instead had spent his dinner gazing wistfully into Castiel's blue eyes. At least, that was what Sam liked to think. He wondered if the two even realised how much they did that – the staring. Most of the time, Sam was used to it. Other times, like now? In public, he was made uncomfortable and almost like a third wheel forced to spend time with his over-compensating butch brother while he swooned over his latest boyfriend. And when you had an elderly woman next to her husband in the next booth whispering '_aren't they just adorable?_' then Sam Winchester was a beacon of self-conscious awkwardness. Because Dean was straight.

Dean groaned impatiently, "Just a few drinks! We like havin' you around! Stay for just the night!"

The younger brother rolled his eyes, glancing out the frosted window. It was a cold night and every window was clouded with mist. He raised a finger to the glass, only to pull away, remembering that only children drew faces in foggy glass. He wasn't a child. He put his hands back on the table, wishing the check would come sooner. He didn't care if Dean did successfully convince Cas into returning to their motel room, because at least they wouldn't be making a racket like so in public. It was embarrassing, watching your older brother – someone who Sam usually considered somewhat of a role model – be transformed into a touchy-feely teenager who had just realised they had a crush on someone for the first time.

Oh well. At least Cas could be taken out in public again. Castiel was proud of himself when he had mastered the art of masking his wings from prying eyes. It was merely a perception filter. If anyone brushed against the angel accidentally they could still knock his wings – only their visibility was hindered. Still, it meant Castiel could stay with the Winchesters without the worry of stares from strangers. However, one would expect the angel to use his newfound talent in aiding the brothers on cases in times of need. Instead, Dean was all over him in a greasy diner with a broken jukebox.

"You know I can't, Dean. I've already explained –."

"– That you've got duties, yeah, I get it, sure," Dean cut him off, "but just one night! Surely your buddies can go eight hours without you?"

Castiel raised an eyebrow, "Surely you can go eight hours without me?"

"_Hey_!"

Sam chuckled softly, silently applauding Castiel. Prolonged exposure to Dean Winchester included symptoms of sass and third degree bitch. He certainly was part of the family.

The waitress appeared, standing with her back turned to Dean and Cas. He assumed it was out of common courtesy, as any stranger would assume the two were... _together_, and she gave Sam the check. He paid her in cash, telling her to keep the change. Then, Sam stood up, giving Dean a nudge on the shoulder as he walked past him, "Hurry up, or I'll take your keys."

"You wouldn't," Dean growled, and within moments he had taken his concentration off Castiel and caught up to his brother, "I always drive. My Baby."

Sam smiled, and once at the car, Dean hopped into the driver's seat, Sam passenger and Cas in the back. He looked annoyed, "I'll stay for a short while."

"You're the best, Cas," Dean replied, and turned the keys. The engine roared and Dean, as always, sped back to the motel. Sam was quiet, knowing if he made a fuss Dean would only laugh and have a go at his manhood. He'd tell him that only sissies paid attention to the speed limits.

They arrived at the motel within five minutes. It was a hole, with plaster walls and rusty orange paint in reception. The carpet was the colour of dead moths and twenty years of collected dust and their room didn't even have single-serving milk or complimentary mints. Even worse, the wall behind the two double beds was bare, no unappealing piece of abstract art hanging like most generic motels did. All in all, the place was a hole. Nice shower, though.

While Dean took a piss, Sam grabbed three beers, handing one for Castiel, "You want one, right?"

Castiel hesitated, then took the bottle from Sam's outstretched hand, "The alcohol content hardly affects my metabolism, but I'll take one out of social circumstances."

"Uh, right." Sam was less witty when it came to making decent conversation with Castiel that wasn't monster-related. If they were researching together, then the two could talk for hours about various mythologies and ideologies, but domestically, Dean was better at the talking. Sam sat down on the edge of his bed, opening his beer. Castiel took the couch, his wings appearing as he let down the perception filter. He ruffled his wings, allowing them to relax as he made himself comfortable on the hard cushion. Like Sam noted, the motel was a hole, including the couch.

Sam secretly thanked Dean's return from the bathroom, and the older brother wiped his hands on his jeans before taking his beer that Sam had left out for him. He twisted the lid and gulped the beverage. Dean made a face. Beer was average, Sam had to agree.

"So, Cas...?" Dean started, waiting for Castiel's acknowledgement before continuing, "If you only just managed to turn your wings invisible now, does that mean, maybe later in the future, you'll be able to pop your wings in and out whenever you please?"

Castiel shook his head, "These wings that you see are part of my grace, even if their appearance is dissimilar to my true form. Constantly disrupting the vessel by pulling my grace from outside the containment of my vessel could have serious consequences. Allowing part of my grace to be in this physical plane is dangerous as it is."

"Oh. So you'll be keepin' your wings out for a long time, then?"

"Does that bother you?"

"No. I was just curious."

Sam considered the new information. He had very few quarrels with the angel having wings – as he had always wings, they only had become visible recently – and if Castiel now had the ability to conceal them in public, they posed no problem. He was more concerned about Castiel's control over his appendages, but as he was able to so, and keep his feathers _off_ his laptop, he was fine. Dean, on the other hand? Sam had a feeling Dean was ecstatic about the news. Dean loved Cas' wings. Sam never mentioned it, but he saw how Dean would attempt to touch his feathers at any possible chance and more than once had he caught his older brother staring with a look that he could only describe as _infatuated_.

Dean crossed the room, about to sit down beside Castiel. He paused, "You're quiet, Sam."

"Just thinking." It was true. Would he ever tell Dean his inner thoughts? No, because the majority seemed to include the questioning of Dean's sexuality and a possible wing kink.

When Dean saw that Sam wasn't going to elaborate, he shrugged and sat down. Then Sam blinked, seeing Castiel stretch his wings, ignorant of Dean's intentions. His wing spread across the couch and before Sam had time to warn Dean, he sat down.

The reaction was immediate. Castiel growled in pain, his wing pushed downwards into an angle it wasn't supposed to go, and out of reflex he flapped the appendage. Dean was thrown off and smashed into the coffee table, the glass surface smashing into four jagged pieces underneath the force. Dean screeched an impressive two octaves higher than his normal register, and Castiel, upon forgetting his strength, bore a face of absolute horror, adding onto the initial pain brought on by his wing.

"Dean?!" Castiel said, his voice laced with anxiety. He pulled Dean up by the shoulders, looking clearly shaken and surprised. He had a deep cut down his cheek.

Sam leaped off his bed, rushing to Dean for further aid. He realised with a pang of jealousy that he needn't worry at all. The angel pressed two fingers to Dean's forehead and the wound had disappeared. Before Castiel, he would have been the one taking care of Dean. Not to say he wasn't grateful, but sometimes he wondered if Dean was beginning to favour Castiel over his own brother. Then he realised it was how Dean must have felt when he chose Ruby over him.

"Don't worry," Dean grumbled, "Cas, shit– I didn't look. How's your wing?"

Cas let go of Dean's shoulder and stretched out his injured wing. The majority of the feathers were out of place, but otherwise, there seemed to be no serious damage, "I am fine."

"Here," Dean said, reaching out to Cas, "I'll fix those."

Sam sighed and returned to his bed. He would call reception later about the table.

"Dean, this isn't necessary–," the angel tried, but Dean was having none of that. He ran his fingers through the angel's wings in an attempt to straighten the feathers. Sam shook his head. Dean didn't even care that there was a broken glass table in front of him, or that his beer had spilt onto the carpet.

It could have been worse. Dean could have transformed into a touchy-feely teenager while they were in _public_. Imagine if any other angels knew the true proximity of Cas and Dean's relationship? He was certain Balthazar would have more than a few things to say.

To be honest, Sam could tolerate their relationship. Dean wasn't gay, Castiel was most definitely asexual, and Dean was extraordinary at hiding his true feelings. Then the mental image of the pair making out in the Impala crossed his mind and he left the motel room. He was sure they didn't even notice he left. Screw them. He was going to a bar to participate in the Winchester way, drinking away his worries in hopes of picking up a nice girl which would indefinitely happen.

Nice one, Winchester.

* * *

**AN:** I am fairly proud of the outcome of this chapter. Purposely, I wrote it in the POV of Sam for a nice change and I think I'll do that more. It's easier to handle Dean and Cas' relationship through the eyes of an outsider. I rushed the end of this, but that's okay. Do you guys like this point of view, or should I switch back to Dean?

I hope I'm not hinting too hard at the destiel... I want to keep the characters true to the TV show, but without the angst and the feels. Recommendations? Critiques? All are welcome!

You guys rock with the reviews and the favourites. This is the longest fanfic in terms of chapters that I've done. I love all of you.


	12. He Flashes His Wings Like A Slut

_Fuck Virgin Mary, man. _

Dean had little to say when his life was on the line. Sometimes, he thought of having sex with saintly women. This time, it was the saint of all saints. She probably had a horrible bush and saggy boobs. But if she had pushed Jesus Christ out of her cunt, then there had to be something good in it.

Dean would cackle the whole way down into Hell if ever any angel had tuned into his mind right now. Even the vampire baring its fangs in front of him would repel him in the name of Jesus Christ. However, the thought didn't last long, and the vampire hissed, spat in his eye and lunged at his neck. He felt teeth pierce his skin and grunted at the sharp pain, struggling in his bonds as he attempted to escape from the blood-sucking leech.

If this was what donating blood felt like, then he wasn't keen on volunteering. Being acutely aware of the blood within you, slowly being forced out of your veins into the slobbering mouth of a fanged abomination was always a bit of a fright. He felt cold. He felt his veins freeze and the rush of terror down his spine and the icy feeling crawl through his entire body. His neck felt limp and where the teeth had sunken into burnt like hot water on cold toes.

The vampire's eyes were wide with a frenzy of bloodlust. Her matte black hair, flowing freely to her waist was stringy and sweaty, but her skin was like untouched porcelain. Out of the corner of Dean's peripheral vision, he could see his very own blood, a dark colour similar to well-aged wine, drip down her chin. It was sticky, and he felt the hot goo trail down his neck and stain his torn shirt while the vampire continued to drain him.

Then, everything became nothing but a blur. He blinked, trying to focus, but all he saw was a smear of reds and greys.

Funnily enough, his strongest emotion in death was the annoyance that he was going to be brought down by nothing more than a pathetic vampire.

_Well_, Dean thought glumly, _Virgin Mary better be waitin' for me in Heaven._

Or so he was led to believe for the brief amount of time he spent unconscious. His neck was numb and his world had become nothing more than an infinite sheet of black. He saw nothing.

He opened his eyes once again, and saw everything.

The vampire was screeching in terror, kneeling on the cold ground in a pool of blood. Her front was stained red. Dean picked up words: mercy; please; begging. Dean's vision cleared, and he found the source of her horror.

Castiel. The angel's wings flared, glinting with each flash of electricity that sparked from the ceiling. His lips were in a thin line and his eyes – oh God, his _eyes_, blazing blue with something that could only be described as ethereal. He cocked his head to the side, but rather than the naive confusion that was usually associated with this gesture, his expression was cold and calculating. He stood, motionless, as he stared down at the terrified monster.

She moved. It was nothing more than the twitch of a nerve in her arm, and soon, she had been swooped up off the ground and thrown fifty yards away into the opposing wall of the old factory. Metal bent and groaned underneath the force. Dean was sure it was Castiel's wings that had thrown the vampire like that, but when he glanced back to Castiel it was like he still hadn't moved; only his piercing gaze had.

Dean realised that his neck hurt, and he was excruciatingly cold. He shuddered, and held his hand to his neck. He felt warm blood pumping onto his palm and pressed harder, hoping he could temporarily stop the blood flow. But he couldn't stop shaking, his limbs shivering uncontrollably.

He heard the vampire wail underneath the newly formed pile of crushed metal. Pieces of scrap shifted, and the vampire slowly pulled her way out. Then, out of all things, Castiel _hummed_; a low, short sound from the back of his throat, considering the situation. Then, he was no longer still. His wings beat down only once, and he was beside the frail vampire and Dean craned his neck to get a better view, only to wince in his pain as his veins discouraged him from moving his neck. He felt more blood spurt onto his hand.

Dean's eyelids closed, and the last thing he remembered was the desperate scream of a woman and the loud spark of electricity.

* * *

Dean coughed. He wrenched his eyes open, and sat up. Bearings: motel room, familiar. Yes, Sammy and he had rented this particular room only recently. And how had he gotten himself in this current position? Drunk? No. Hunt? Yes. Vampires, an entire nest. And _the fucking bitch._

Dean remembered. He remembered the sudden lurch in his stomach as he was attacked from behind, then dragged half-unconscious to a post, tied and gagged. Then he remembered the agony of fangs digging into his veins, of blood being sucked from his very body, staring at his own life force dripping down in front of him.

And of course, he remembered falling asleep, and waking up to find his Angel of the Lord, his saviour and closest friend: Castiel.

"Cas?" he said immediately, looking around the room.

"Dean?" Sam's voice returned his call, and it wasn't long before he located Sam, sitting on the other side of the room at the desk, nose buried in his laptop, "Feeling better?"

Dean frowned, "I... yeah. Memory's a bit hazy. Care to prompt me?"

Sam turned on his seat, facing his brother, "We were tackling more vampires than we could handle. We got separated, and some of the vampires jumped you. I couldn't find you, or the other vampires, so I called Castiel. It wasn't long before he found you and dealt with the remainder of the nest. You looked pretty bad, having your blood drained and all, but Castiel fixed you up, sent you off to sleep, and zapped you back here. Here you are. You've only been asleep for a few hours."

Dean nodded, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger, before running a hand through his hair. "And where's Cas now?"

Sam was just about to answer, until Castiel appeared right in front of his bed, "Hello, Dean."

"Hey," Dean said, "Good to see you."

"And I am glad to find that you have recovered appropriately, but that is to be expected, as it was I who healed you, and thus knew your prognosis."

Sam rolled his eyes. He returned back to his computer, leaving the two to their idle chatter. Apparently, Dean was far more interested in engaging himself in conversation with the King of Social Retardation than his own brother.

Dean smiled. Same old Cas. His wings were folded and tucked away, and they looked so much smaller when they weren't used in combat, "You totally ganked that blood-sucker back there. Looked real flashy."

Castiel tilted his head to the side and Dean saw the visible difference between Castiel as a fighter and Cas as a friend. This Cas bore the face of innocence and friendliness. The Castiel he witnessed was a soldier with the intent of achieving his aims.

"I mean, with your wings," Dean clarified, "Not that I see how they actually aid you in a fight, but you looked pretty tough."

"The visibility of my wings does aid me in combat, Dean."

Dean frowned, "How?"

"Consider this: all men have muscles, however, it is how toned and shaped these muscles are that decide on who is the stronger man. Similarly, every angel has wings, and these wings are a direct connection towards their Grace. Consequently, the visibility, added with the trained discipline of control of one's wings, causes the angel to have far superior strength, agility, and power."

"So it _is_ a show-off thing!" Dean smirked, knowing he was only nerving his friend, "Aw, you wanna tell all your buddies upstairs that you're strong too?" he asked condescendingly.

Castiel hardly even blinked. "Dean, I am aware that you seem to gain some sort of delight out of patronising your friends, but I am going to take the moral high ground here, as at least, if I submitted to defeat in a fight, my dying thoughts would not to be fornicate with Mother Mary."

And just like that, Castiel had disappeared, and Sam was clutching his stomach with uncontrollable laughter, and Dean was staring at the wall in front of him in mortified horror.

Because if Castiel had heard that, then how many other angels did too?

That was it. Dean was officially going to Hell.

* * *

**AN:** Aw yiss. Here is that chapter I promised you guys a while ago, featuring badass!Cas, and blasphemous!Dean. I think Dean thinks that way because he's so used to being saved at the last possible moment. Also note, it was just a vampire bite. He wasn't turned. Just to clarify.

I liked how I wrote this, on the whole. I could have added more, but I do have a piano exam in literally one week and I am flipping my shit. Writing these seem to be the only thing that is keeping me sane.

One of my school friends suggested I wrote a chapter regarding a deeper insight into how Castiel made his wings visible. Any ideas? Ideas are really welcome. I write all ideas down in my book, with a page designated to this story. Plus, prompts give me inspiration to continue writing, which equals faster updates.

Reviews are beautiful, and so are you. Thank.


	13. My Feathers Represent Sexual Frustration

"_Room 24, Block B, Super 8 Hotel, Clarence Street, Chicago._ _Dean's there. I'm at the library._"

"Thank you."

Castiel pushed his thumb harshly onto the only red button on the flimsy device before shoving it into his trouser pocket. He had little respect for the cellular device, considering every time he called Dean, he would only get teased. Castiel was an angel. He didn't appreciate Dean's jesting, and so usually preferred calling Sam. Sam was polite and did not question his almighty power, as Castiel knew that his power far exceeded the strength of the two brothers combined. Castiel liked reminding Dean of this fact, as it made him uncomfortable and he would spend the next few hours asserting his over-compensating masculinity whenever possible.

Disregarding his train of thought, Castiel spread his wings and appeared in the address Sam had specified. Flying was simple, but sometimes he felt that it passed by too quickly. He supposed this reasoning was due to his exposure to the human condition, and their ability to pleasantly enjoy the passing of time.

But, _pleasant_ was no longer part of Castiel's vocabulary in the following moments to come.

"Cas– what the _fuck_!" Dean screeched, and momentarily, Castiel wished he had never carved the sigils into specifically, Dean's ribs. He wished he could see Dean _before_ abruptly flying over. It would avoid situations such as these.

Castiel couldn't help but stare in utter shock, and out of instinct, his vessel tensed and his eyes widened. Surprised at himself, it was only in his nature to take in the beauty of his father's creation. Castiel himself had constructed this very human back together, and he knew him down to the very atom. He saw the small grooves from Dean's ribs and the flexed muscles of his thighs, presented across the mattress like an offering. He remembered when the humans did that, when they _begged_ to be sacrificed. But Dean was hardly presenting.

The angel snapped out of his trance quickly, glancing away. He remembered that humans had a societal protocol called _privacy_, and this _privacy _included one's more intimate body parts. Castiel was unfazed by... well, _genitals_, as he had spent the majority of his life time watching over humanity, but having a sort of an emotional attachment to Dean put a different perspective on the matter.

Stating it bluntly, Castiel never imagined he would find his most favoured human in such a compromised position, with the man's hand clutching his own penis.

That didn't last long. Dean made sounds of absolute horror and humiliation, his words lost in the terrified ramble he was spewing from his own mouth. Dean had reached for one of the bed's pillows in hopes of covering himself up, but then Castiel felt it.

He didn't know what it was.

He felt his own vessel yelp at the change, and without any control, he felt like his wings had only just become visible. He felt as if he had no control over them. It was like they _exploded_, one wing slamming into the wall, whereas the other...? Straight into Dean.

Dean cursed and shrieked blasphemy, his limbs flying in every direction as he was thrown off the bed. He crashed onto the floor, and yelled again. Another curse. It became all a blur. Castiel saw his own feathers drifting onto the bed and over Dean, and Dean desperately reaching for his jeans despite being on the opposite side of the bed. Then Castiel saw Dean Commando-roll over the bed, snatch the pile of clothes while tackling the heap of feathers that stood in his way, using the wing as a veil to shield his manhood from Cas' eyes.

Suddenly, Dean was gone. In his own humiliation, he had stormed out of the room. And Castiel simply stood there, terrified, wondering if it was safe to retract his sporadic wings. Then he did. Then he didn't move.

With a hint of guilt, he wondered if Dean always shut his eyes that tightly while pleasuring himself.

* * *

Sam was sure he had missed out on something big.

He knew this, because Dean had mysteriously disappeared and Castiel was staring at the ground in their motel room like it was the most terrifying thing in the world. But when Cas looked up to Sam walking through the door, Sam realised that Cas was terrified of anything in general. Cas swallowed nervously, and glanced away.

"Uh, where's Dean?" Sam asked. He wasn't exactly sure what was going on at this point.

Castiel merely shook his head once. His eyes returned to the carpet. _Nope nope nope nope nope_.

Sam fidgeted, "Did I miss something?" He wondered what, considering he had only been gone for twenty minutes to the public library. He dumped the two books he had borrowed on Dean's untouched bed, and noticed that the duvet was askew; odd, considering they had only just checked in. Then, only by chance, did he notice something small and black. He picked it up, and found one of Castiel's feathers. What was a feather doing on Dean's bed?

"Cas...?" Sam prompted, holding up the feather.

Castiel was clearly nervous. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, refusing to make eye contact with the younger Winchester. After a while, he cleared his throat, "I may have... intruded on Dean's privacy. Accidentally."

Nothing clicked. Sam blinked, blank-faced and clueless, "Uh?"

Castiel was frustrated by Sam's lack of understanding, and nervously rephrased, "Dean was attending to his more intimate needs."

_Click_.

Sam made a sound of disgust, wondering who he should feel more embarrassed for. No wonder Dean was gone; how was he supposed to look at Castiel without feeling humiliated? Sam knew the awkwardness well enough, having done the same to his brother when Dean was a teenager. Fortunately, he hadn't ever barged in on Dean since the guy was seventeen, and he planned for it to stay that way.

The same fortunate circumstance of avoiding the situation could not be said for Castiel, whose total naivety and lack of comprehension would worsen the intrusion. It was not everyday an Angel would find his charge and close friend jerking himself off.

"Cas, I am _so_ sorry– it's not your fault– it happens," Sam rambled with little articulation, "Dean probably didn't know you were arriving... I forgot to tell him, after I called you, shit, sorry."

Castiel nodded again, ducking his head in shame, "It's my fault. I should have checked. I forgot."

"No, no, it's not your fault, trust me. Do you know where Dean is now?"

"I believe he is sitting in the Impala," Castiel mumbled, "maybe it is better if I leave, and you handle this case by yourselves."

Sam sighed, "Cas, relax. I'll talk to him. It's happened to me, too. Don't worry about it." Sam did his best to coax the angel, despite having a feeling that it would take more than a few words of reassurance for Castiel to recover from the mental scar in his brain.

Leaving Castiel, Sam made his way outside to where the Impala was parked. Surely, Dean was there, sitting in the driver's seat. He didn't seem to be doing much, except for staring out the windscreen. Sam hopped in the passenger's seat, "Hey."

No response.

"Scared the angel, did we?"

Dean scowled, "Don't."

"Well, it's true. It must have been a shock for him, seeing you like that."

Dean slammed his hands on the steering wheel, "Sammy!" he yelled. "You don't know what happened!"

Sam jerked his head up, looking at Dean with expectance. _What happened?_ He knew Castiel had caught Dean at a bad time. Was there something else? Then, he remembered the feather he found on Dean's bed.

"Oh God, please don't tell me you _do_ have a crazy wing kink."

"No!" Dean snapped, "It's not–" he groaned, frustrated, "It's... Like I said, you don't know what happened."

"Then explain?" Sam suggested.

Dean looked ready to lash out, but to Sam's surprise, he exhaled and collected his thoughts. "Well, after he... you know, caught me doing the dirty..." Dean hinted, "I was busy yellin' at him while trying to get my pants back on, and then before I know it, his wings basically fuckin' explode all over me. And I have part of his _fucking wing_ on my _fucking dick_. We're both freaking out here, Sammy. He doesn't know what the fuck his wings are doing, I just want to get my fucking jeans back on..." Dean groaned again.

Sam considered the nicer route. He could have a lengthy discussion where he would calm his brother and assure that it was all a misunderstanding. He didn't, though. Let the guy suffer.

"Two words, Dean," Sam said, "Angel boner."

Sam couldn't breathe for two minutes.

* * *

**AN:** I regret nothing. You even have the wonderful appearance of both Castiel's POV and Sam's POV. I think I like writing in Cas' POV.

This whole idea is a stupid and overused trope but I don't care.

Reviews nice kthnx bye


	14. Trench Coat Lunch

Free Will was still a relatively new concept, its idea only presented to angels a few small years ago. Compared to the many millennia that angels had existed for, this idea still needed some adjusting to.

Balthazar, however, did not need the time to adjust.

Sex was great. Greed was great. Pride and lust were, too. In fact, anything sinful and remotely related to the flawed human condition, Balthazar happily indulged in. Who knew that a near-death experience could be so enlightening? And it was all thanks to his dearest brother, Castiel.

Without Castiel, he would never have been inspired to explore humanity. He had very little idea how Castiel hadn't done the same, considering it was he who rebelled to this extent. He had a feeling it was simply part of his personality. Even in Heaven, back in the day, Castiel had always been the reserved, quiet type. If angels had friends, then he was not what a human would call popular.

At least, Balthazar had quickly realised, that Castiel's stoicism had decreased since the Winchesters. When Castiel had learnt that Balthazar was alive, he would actually visit him just to say _hello_. Old Cas would never do that. Balthazar liked New Cas considerably more.

He was more fun to play with.

Balthazar lived in a relatively modest house. Only one storey, he had made somewhat of a home of it. He learnt that it was a human-y thing to have the following in a house:

- A living room (couches, TV, lounging materials)

- Kitchen (stocked with food and drink)

- Bathroom (stocked with toiletries and other hygienic products)

- Bedroom (bed, clothes, and useless, sentimental shit)

- Laundry (for the cleaning of clothes)

- Recreational room(pool table, darts, minibar, library)

These essentials allowed him to make his house a _home_. He liked home. He found his house more of a home than Heaven ever was. You couldn't own DVDs in Heaven. Even worse, you couldn't smoke or have sex.

When Castiel decided to drop by on a lazy Sunday afternoon, Balthazar was enjoying a good drag of the bong while reading a peculiar book, _Naked Lunch_ by William S. Burroughs. The book was also about sex and drugs, among other things. He liked it, and found it amusing, as humans did the strangest things. Did you know some meth head sluts liked to pole dance with the intestines of the recently deceased? It was true. He read it.

He closed the book when Castiel appeared before him, and immediately shoved the bong to the side.

"Cas, glad to see you've dropped by!"

As always, Castiel was scruffy and his clothes were untidy – _still_ with the trench coat! His hair had some crazy thing going on too; could Castiel be possibly grooming his hair with _gel_? Scandalous! And oh, how could Balthazar not forget the wings that Castiel refused to hide? What a proud bitch. A tenner that Castiel showed off his pretty angel wings in front of his boyfriend.

"Afternoon," Castiel nodded, and it didn't take Balthazar long at all to recognise the signs of _I-Have-Human-Problems_. Other recognisable features included the scrunching of Castiel's nose due to the strong scent of cannabis.

Balthazar couldn't help but smirk. He hoped it was to do with Dean Winchester. "You look troubled. Want to sit, Cassy? Have, what do they call it, a 'd-and-m'?"

Castiel cocked his head to the side, "Uh?" he sat down anyway, opposite Balthazar.

"Deep and meaningful," Balthazar explained, leaning back. He smiled, "So how's your boyfriend, Cassy?"

His brother stiffened and _well damn _the guy was a prude.

"Why you constantly insist on claiming I have some sort of romantic attachment to a male, I fail to understand."

"Because you act like _that_. Look at you; taking the higher ground. As a friend, I think it would be in your best interests to get laid. Namely, by Dean Winchester."

"He is what one would call heterosexual, Balthazar," Castiel pointed out.

Balthazar liked that at no point, did Castiel deny the possibility of having sex with Dean Winchester. "Then it'll be an experience for the both of you."

"I can leave," Castiel snapped, and his feathers shifted. Was it because he was asserting his newly found dominance, or was he hiding something? Balthazar looked at his brother steadily. Then Castiel glanced away. Knew it. If Castiel lost an eye-staring competition, then something _definitely_ was wrong.

"Cas. You're a big angel now, but I realise that earth is a little difficult to adjust to. But I'm here for you, and you can tell me _anything_."

Castiel was never one for beating around the bush. "I accidentally dropped in on Dean masturbating."

If Balthazar wasn't that _little bit_ high, he would have probably made indistinguishable sounds of disgust in order to stop Castiel completely. Did he want to hear about his boyfriend's desperate needs? _Definitely not_.

"Awkward."

"I am not intimidated by the human body, or sexual intimacies." Castiel clarified, "My concerns seem to lie in the reaction of my wings."

"_And_?"

"Upon seeing Dean... My wings lost all form of control, and consequently one had knocked Dean over."

An interesting development, Balthazar considered, and he wondered how one would go about in fucking someone's wings. There had to be such a thing as a wing-kink. He hoped it would be Dean Winchester who had the wing-kink.

Then, he realised he spent too much time thinking about Castiel's potential sex life. Maybe Castiel simply needed a better education on the wonders of sex, then he would give it a chance.

Balthazar really couldn't help Castiel much. However, after ten minutes of pointless chatter that was going nowhere, as Castiel _was_ the biggest fucking prude in the entire universe, and even went to the extent of tackling Balthazar to the ground in hopes of shutting him up about sex, Balthazar decided on the next best thing for his beloved brother.

Long story short, Castiel was stoned.

* * *

"Dude, Cas is _baked_."

The angel had been staring at a wall for at least twenty minutes. His wings, usually neatly folded behind his back, were stretched along the motel floor, tension-free and in the damn way. It wasn't easy climbing over giant wings, and Dean wasn't fond of hurting the things again, remembering the painful memory of being literally thrown across the room.

Sam and Dean stared at Cas. They had never seen the guy smile so much, and it was uncanny, seeing him blissfully grin at a wall. It reminded Dean of the Castiel he had met in 2014, making the situation even more unsettling.

"I'm more curious as to how he got into this state," Sam said, "Is Cas friends with more drug addicts than we initially believed?"

"Apparently," Dean muttered, unable to take his eyes of Castiel. Not like the intense staring he usually got from Cas, but in a _this-is-fucking-unreal_ sort of way. The angel doesn't even have money! Seriously, Sam held a valid point. Who on earth is Cas friends with?

Then Cas started talking to the wall, nonsensical bullshit that even meth heads would have trouble comprehending: "Whaddya they call you? _Sailor! _You wanta, nooood? Room for One More Inside, Sir – approaching Meaning Zero. _I like you_. Yes."

Dean couldn't help but feel unsettled by the entire situation, choosing to tune out. It didn't work. He glanced to Sam, who was just as disturbed.

"Wanna go out for a bit?" Dean asked.

"And leave Cas here?"

"That's the plan."

Sam just nodded, and the two – after almost doing the splits in order to cross the room – grabbed their wallets, and the keys to the Impala, and left hastily. Castiel didn't even notice they had left. He was too busy discussing the intricacies of Cuilism to wallpaper.

* * *

**AN:** Didn't this chapter take on an extremely different path to every other chapter. In all fairness, _Naked Lunch_ is influencing me. It's a good book, but not for the faint-hearted. If you are not okay with the phrase, 'my grandmother's dry cunt' then this is not a book for you. The language is also fuck hard to understand due to it being all drug talk. Mostly.

Anyway, despite the weirdness of this chapter (I'm unsure of this one), enjoy it as much as you can.

Ideas would be really good right now, as I only have two ideas in my 'idea bank'. Like, I actually am running out of ideas. Help?


	15. Magic Fingers

Apparently, wings had negatives, too.

Castiel had been a whining, complaining, non-stop _cry baby_ for weeks on end. Every single minute, the Winchesters were subject to Castiel's incessant whinging, empathetic only for the first few days the problem had occurred.

Castiel had back pain.

It was logical, really. The sheer weight of the wings was enough to affect the vessel, and finally, his spine was giving in. Everything ached and pained and no matter what he tried, the feeling that was beginning to feel somewhat similar to being stabbed multiple times, his bones continued to hurt.

They couldn't go to a doctor – wings, man – so Sam took the liberty of giving Castiel his first check up. The Winchesters were more or less deciding to help the angel only in the pretence that they could fix the problem, and therefore Castiel would stop complaining.

Castiel stood in the centre of the motel room, tie, shirt and trench coat folded over the back of a nearby chair. Dean watched with mild curiosity, leaning on the headboard of his bed, book in his hands. _Cat's Cradle _could wait – he was interested to see how this scenario would play out. Sam didn't volunteer, but Dean had said it made more sense, as he probably had more knowledge in this field of expertise.

"Alright, uh," Sam stood behind Cas, evaluating, "Can you move your wings? Just so I can see your whole back."

Obediently, Castiel spread his wings apart, cautious as to not spook Sam. He was acutely aware that Sam was uncomfortable when in close proximity to his wings.

Then, Sam pressed two fingers into the centre of Castiel's spine, "I'm going to check your pressure points. If I press somewhere, and it hurts, then tell me." Castiel nodded, and Sam began, pushing the two fingers down Castiel's spine. When Sam was only a mere inch from his pantline, Castiel suddenly jerked, hissing at the sharp pain that Sam had caused.

"I'm guessing that hurt?"

"Yes," Castiel grumbled, and he reached his hand around, rubbing his lower back gently. It didn't do much.

Sam waited until Castiel had recovered, then did the same thing again, only he felt on the upper part of his back. The same reaction happened when Sam pressed into the shoulder blades, where wing met skin, and around his nape. By the end of it, Castiel was a whining mess, irate and even grumpier than when Sam had started.

"Sometimes people get back pains because they have weak spots. I had a friend who had an inflamed disc in their spine because she had no muscle in her core – but that was due to an operation."

Castiel shook his head, "As an angel, I can assure you that I am most definitely, _not_ weak."

Neither brother was exactly sure what to do after discovering where Castiel's pains were. Sam thought it could be a posture thing, and tried to teach Cas basic stretches. That hadn't worked out. Amusing, Sam thought, that the angel didn't have the capacity to understand the concept of spirituality to centre his body. It wasn't a posture problem, though. Even Dean could see that Castiel – or his vessel, at least – did not have scoliosis, tense muscles or anything of the like. It was the wings.

Then, Dean took a different approach. He had a feeling, after he had introduced the angel to the wonders of the service, that he had merely found a temporary relief. It was like paracetamol to an alcoholic. It could only work for so long before another dose was needed.

Dean had to sleep on the couch.

The bed vibrated and shook, and Castiel purred like a sleepy kitten as the mattress worked its magic into his spine. Dean wanted to laugh, seeing Castiel melting like warm butter, his wings flopping over the edge of the bed with every muscle in his body relaxed.

Then the time would stop. Castiel would whine. Dean would insert another quarter for Cas. And it would begin again.

"Don't you think you should give it a break?" Dean asked, one time.

"No." Stubborn bastard. Who did he think he was? He couldn't just hog Dean's bed (Sam's bed was out of bounds, because Sam felt that the angel's obsession with the vibrating mattress had terrible sexual connotations) and expect to get away with it.

Dean groaned, "It's not exactly helping your problem, is it? It's just temporary."

Castiel didn't seem to care. He nuzzled his face into Dean's pillow, and Dean thought he looked like a kitten. His coat had been discarded, as had his shoes, and Castiel had found the strangely comfortable position of lying flat on his back except for his upper body, which was twisted in a way that allowed him to bury his face into the pillow and curl his arms underneath his cheek. Dean would almost go to say that he looked serene, if not for the vibrations, which rocked him constantly.

"You know, people use that machine as a sex thing."

"You don't."

Castiel obviously missed the point of what Dean was trying to do. He sighed and sat on the edge of Sam's bed, facing Cas. Then, the machine stopped. Cas whined.

"Look, let's try something else," Dean suggested, "Shirt off."

Castiel frowned, glancing at Dean with curiosity. The last time Dean had forced Cas to take off his clothes, Sam had found them and been assuming it was sex-related for _weeks_. This time, though, it was different. Sam was still in the same room, typing away on his laptop.

And Sam had heard Dean's proposition, craning his head in complete confusion. Did he hear correctly? He certainly had, and watched Dean shift Castiel so he was sitting up straight. He wondered if they forgot that he was still in the room. Dean started unbuttoning Castiel's shirt. Sam stared; Castiel was allowing this to go ahead? What was Dean planning on doing?

It didn't take long for Sam to realise. Dean climbed up on the bed, behind Castiel, and with Castiel's wings spread apart, softly rubbed into his shoulder blades. Dean Winchester gave massages? It was the first time Sam had ever heard of it.

Dean pressed his palms into the centre of Cas' spine, gently circling the pressure points with the tips of his fingers. The large appendages stiffened at the touch, and Cas glanced over his shoulder nervously.

"Relax," Dean muttered, continuing to rub his fingers into Castiel's back. He couldn't help but stare at his shoulder blades, seeing where Cas' wings sprouted from. Unlike what he imagined, the skin was red and raw around the joints and Dean wondered if it would hurt to touch. Out of curiosity, he slid his palms to both areas where the wings protruded from the inflamed skin and brushed his fingers over the area, careful to not touch the wings. Dean had a feeling touching Castiel's wings weren't the best of ideas, considering he was receiving certain _looks_ from Sammy.

Castiel winced at the touch, and Dean quickly moved away. His goal was to relax Cas, not to make him tense. He took a different approach, massaging his nape. Surely, his shoulders began to droop as did his wings, which found themselves beside Dean across the bed. Then Dean trailed his fingers down Cas' spine, kneading the sensitive bones down to his waistline. He had a feeling that what he was doing was slightly dirty; defacing the angel by relieving him of his temporary pain. He rubbed the lower area, where his spine arched most, and the angel shuddered, "That's good..."

"Good?" Dean echoed, "Keep doing this?" He circled his palms into the area, and Cas nodded, his eyes shutting at the tenderness of Dean's touch. It was a sense of bliss, the sharp ache that had been tearing at him like his bones were going to snap finally disintegrating when Dean's hands worked their magic on his spine.

Dean worked on the area, and it wasn't long before he felt the tickle of a feather on his arm. He glanced to his right, and sure enough, one of Castiel's magnificent appendages had edged towards Dean to the point of physical contact, subtly stroking Dean's forearm. With a sense of self-consciousness, he looked towards Sam. Sam only gave him an eye roll in return, and dug his nose back into the computer screen.

With a hint of hesitation, Dean slid one hand upwards, leaving his left to continue massaging his arch. With his right, he lightly trailed his fingertips over the inflamed joints, only momentarily, before running his fingers through his feathers. Oh, he was _definitely_ going to Hell for this. It was like nothing he had ever felt before; soft silk caressing his skin. He experimentally stroked the feathers, looking for spots, reactions, anything.

He found it, whatever it was he was looking for, but he found it. Castiel made a sound at the back of his throat – a low hum, something that could even be described as _pleasurable_, and Dean felt the area, receiving the same reaction. The second time, it was more than just a sound, more along the lines of a hitched _moan_ than a hum.

And apparently, that was enough for Sam. "Dean, dude!" he barked, "Do you even realise what you're doing?"

Dean blinked, "The guy's in pain, Sammy. I'm just being a good friend and helping him out."

Castiel opened both eyes wearily, glancing at Sam with lazy apprehension. He shrugged. When one had been suffering for weeks, there was little time for dignity. He was keen to take relief or pleasure at the first chance it was offered to him.

"And by helping him out," Sam pointed out, keeping clear of Castiel's piercing gaze, "you're out-gaying yourself."

Dean frowned, processing what Sam was alluding to. Then he pulled both hands away, quickly jumping off the bed, "I wasn't being like that!" he snapped, and already he was wiping his hands on the front of his jeans, like they had become dirty from the apparent homoerotic activity he had been supposedly participating in.

Apparently, Dean's massage didn't even account for anything anyway. Castiel simply needed to stretch his wings more often, and a few trips to the Himalayas fixed that.

Sam, on the other hand, delighted himself in teasing Dean about the closet for weeks. It could have been worse.

* * *

**AN:** Where have I been these last few days? I had a piano exam today! A 40 minute recital! With an evil bitch examiner! I celebrated with an early Xmas present, which is a Woody Allen boxset, with 20 films. TWENTY FILMS!

In other news, I'm still sobbing over the perfection that was SPN 8x07. Oh Jesus. I can't. And I am ecstatic for 8x08. GABRIEL, MAYBE? I have also come to the conclusion that Chuck is Metatron - it makes sense. Metatron is God's _scribe_, and Chuck was the narrator in Swan Song and wrote the books and arghh. Please please please writers, conclude this plot point, and bring back Chuck and Gabriel. I beg you.

Also, chapter! A reviewer mentioned I should grab an idea of one of the first SPN oneshots I did of Cas and Dean, so here you have it. I hope I pulled it off okay. I plan on referring to the inflammation in Cas' skin later. Hope you liked this chapter, and thanks for the many wonderful reviews. Hopefully I'm taking the destiel in the right direction? I dunno.


	16. Virgin Blood

Hunting was a thankless job. No one cared that you saved their ass – they just wanted you to get the fuck away from them. No one was even willing to spare a few bucks for putting your life on the line. Sometimes, you'd look at these unknowing, unprotected people, and you'd wonder why you saved them if they don't even have the heart to be grateful about it.

Dean had gotten used to the poor treatment of a hunter's work very early on. While Sam had attempted for so long to earn an honest living, Dean was more than happy hustling pool, pick-pocketing, and gambling for his annual salary. And being the content fucker he was, he was more than happy to celebrate a successful hunt with casual sex.

And sex is exactly what he planned on doing.

Condoms first.

_Why are we always out of rubber_? Dean thought with irritation, pulling up to the side of the kerb. He hopped out and locked the Impala, doing his best to walk into the pharmacy without looking either a) a perverted creep, or b) a sex-crazed weirdo. He sauntered down the aisles; it was always a bitch to find where they decided to hide the condoms. Generally, it was between oral hygiene and soaps. Sure enough, he found the small section, lodged in between a vast array of toothbrushes all claiming to have scientific sorcery that was the key to white teeth.

He snatched up a few packets of his preferred brand, holding three small boxes in the palm of his hand. He wondered if he should buy something else, so as to not appear to actually be a creep to the girl at the counter. Then he remembered he didn't care.

Dean turned, and instead of making his way to the register jumped two steps back, "Cas!" he hissed.

Cas stood in front of him, wings – thankfully – concealed, hair messy with thin tendrils falling over his forehead and attire untucked and worn. He frowned, and cocked his head to the side, "Timing?" he questioned, before noticing the small boxes in Dean's hand. So very Castiel-like, he managed to convey an entire sentence into his glance: _Are those what I think they are?_

Dean was nervous. He would be anxious enough if Sam was with him, and that was the very reason why Sam was stuck in the motel. But Castiel, Dean had to remind himself, was somewhat innocent when it came to humanly sexual desires. He tried patience with the guy, deciding it was better to state things simply. "I just needed more. For tonight."

"All of them?"

"Christ, _no_– what do you think? How can anyone possibly use thirty rubbers in one night?"

The tilt increased, "Rubbers? I was under the impression they had a different name."

Dean couldn't help but groan. Patience wearing. "We're in public. I don't want to talk about this. What do you want, anyway?" he realised that he was coming off mean, and shrugged, "Let me pay for these, first. Wait for me by the Impala."

"Can't I wait with you here?" Castiel asked, and Dean temporarily forgot why he had ordered Castiel to not be in his presence when buying condoms.

He approached the counter, dumping the three boxes in front of the girl. She was what, fifteen? Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and her lips were thin and pale. Dean guessed she was a virgin, judging by the way she timidly scanned the boxes and awkwardly handed them back. "Uh, that's fourteen-fifty," she mumbled, glancing upwards.

Castiel reared behind Dean, glancing over his shoulder with naive curiosity as Dean pulled out a note from his wallet. Dean remembered why he didn't want Castiel by his side.

The girl looked terrified, and it only took one look at Cas and another at Dean to put the two together. Her eyes read it all: _gay gay gay gay gay. _Teenagers, man. Dean swallowed dryly, wishing he could clarify. Anything he thought in his head, he came off as something even worse than the excuse before.

He gave her the money and received $6.50 in change. Quickly taking the plastic bag, which the girl had so kindly placed the condoms in, he sped out the door towards the Impala.

"Is there a problem, Dean?" Castiel asked, the innocent angel that he was.

Dean frowned, "Well, when a girl sees a guy buying some rubbers, and that guy has a guy friend with him, she's gonna assume some things, buddy."

Castiel was silent for a minute, thinking over Dean's words. Dean wanted nothing more than to simply get in the Impala and drive back to the motel, freshen up, then head out to the local bar. But he waited, figuring it was rude to leave Castiel when their somewhat of a conversation hadn't concluded. He wondered why Castiel had even approached him a store, of all places. Couldn't he wait until he was back at the motel?

"Dean?" Castiel started, and Dean waited for him to continue, expecting a question along the lines of what was the purpose of condoms, as in Castiel's eyes, Dean assumed, he would think they were sinful by hijacking the entire point of sex. "How did you lose your virginity?"

Dean coughed, hacking on his own spit as the words registered in his head, "Dude!" he finally managed to choke out, "You can't just ask that!"

"Why not?"

Dean realised that Castiel was expecting Dean to answer, and he groaned. The memory wasn't exactly a fond one.

It took a few minutes before Dean could collect himself together, and with a scowl, he cleared his throat, "I was fourteen. Dad had been out for a week, around now. This girl I met at school, she was really hot." Dean glanced at Castiel, feeling his blue eyes glued onto his. It was nerving. He looked at the pavement, "Uh, I took her back to the motel we were staying out. Because you know, she thought I was cool for living in shitty motels. Sammy was over at a friend's, so we took advantage, stole a few beers and found a few rubbers in dad's bag. I asked if she wanted to, and she did." Dean paused, wishing he could stop here. Unfortunately, there was more to the story. "We broke two condoms, had to wait until I could get it back up because I came on her too early, then I missed and by the time I had finally gotten to the actual part, she decided to tell me that she was a virgin too and when I broke her hymen..." Dean shivered, "Blood all on my dick. All on dad's bed. I was fucking scarred."

He finally returned his gaze to Castiel's, and his cheeks burnt up at the sight of the wide smile the angel wore. Castiel snickered, and that was enough for Dean. He opened the Impala door and got in, slamming the door to show he was pissed. He sped off, leaving the angel alone. Serves the bastard right. You don't just _laugh_ at a guy's virginity story.

Dean thought he had successfully avoided Cas for the rest of the night, but pulling up at the motel, he saw Castiel patiently waiting for him by their room door. He groaned again.

"Go and torment someone else," Dean snapped at him when he arrived at their door.

Castiel gave him a look – damn those puppy eyes – and Dean hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck with guilt. Castiel didn't know any better. "Is virginity a topic that is not discussed often?"

"You could say that," Dean grumbled, jamming the key into the lock. "Why you asking, anyway?" he asked, walking inside. He greeted Sam half-heartedly whose eyes were glued to the TV screen and held the door open for Cas.

"I was only asking because–," Castiel started, but unfortunately, Dean would never hear the end of Castiel's response. He shut the door, and Castiel growled, thrown into the door by an invisible force. Then, his wings reappeared, the perception filter lifted, and Dean realised what he had done.

Castiel stiffened, holding his breath in an attempt to suppress his urge to yell out in pain. He whimpered, afraid to move, afraid that the slightest jerk could tear out his left wing out of his back. The pain soared and dug into his spine, the door cutting into the bone of his wing, ripping out feathers, crushing veins.

"Shit, fuck!" Dean was up in arms, visibly more concerned over the wing more than Cas appeared to be. Sam had already jumped off the bed, running to Castiel's aid. Dean lodged the door open – slowly, and the wing dropped uselessly to the ground. Blood dripped from the forearm of the wing, a deep cut severing the thin membrane. Castiel couldn't help but stare in absolute disbelief: that was _his_ wing, but somehow it was nothing more than a strange object that he had no control over. That wasn't his wing. It didn't obey his commands. It didn't move. For a fleeting moment, Castiel thought the wing literally had been ripped out of his back.

The blood stained the door and started dripping onto the carpet, and the pain momentarily subsided. He felt Dean and Sam take hold of his arms and drag him to the bed, lying him down on his stomach. Then, Dean's calloused hands were hoisting the bloody mess onto the other bed, stretched out flat. His feathers were wet and sticky with the hot liquid.

A searing, white flame dug into his skin and Castiel was whimpering again. Underneath the heavy layers of clothing, the rashes over his shoulder blades itched and rubbed uncomfortably against the cheap fabric of Jimmy's shirt.

"Cas, talk to me, buddy, please," he heard Dean talk desperately to him, "What do we do? Bandages? Can't you use your grace?" Castiel stared blankly at Dean, but was thrown out of the state by the quick snapping of Dean's fingers in front of him.

"I can't... Heal my grace, with my grace," Castiel explained with a level of dazed lethargy. He closed his eyes, despite knowing he was unable to sleep. The absence of vision seemed to dampen the torturous agony, however.

Dean took a deep breath, glancing over to Sam for guidance; _anything_, really. Sam was just as clueless, "Bandages? Painkillers? That's his grace, Dean."

Castiel didn't remember the next few hours. He drifted between the sharp awareness of pain and the mellow dullness of oblivion, wondering that the next time he opened his eyes, both wings would have vanished and a dire need of hunger and sleep would overwhelm him. No. He couldn't be human. Bandages had to do something. If humans were able to survive broken bones, then he could too.

Needless to say, Dean might as well not have bought the condoms at all.

* * *

_**AN:** _You know when characters decide to have a mind of their own? This is an example of that. This chapter was not supposed to end like this? The concept was supposed to be amusing because hurting characters is _fun. _But apparently, Supernatural doesn't think so. So have half a fun chapter, half a sad chapter. And somewhat of a cliffhanger? I guess.

Dean lost his virginity at 14 because he's a slut and most sluts lose their virginity at that age, I should know, I'm friends with enough of them c:

Ending on a happy note, 98 followers? Oh you guys. You guys are seriously, _the best. _I would say, let us look forward to the beauty that is 8x08 tomorrow, but Americans are fucked up and don't care about their audience? Cry.


	17. Life on Earth

Whether the brothers liked it or not, Castiel had entered the territory of soap opera marathons, late-night snacking and indulged in the guilty pleasures of dependence. He didn't get out of bed. He _hardly_ wore clothes. The angel had somehow forgotten his former divine dignity which he once used to maintain, asserting his angelic masculinity over the two brothers at any chance, instead lying in the centre of two double beds that had been pushed together to account for his wingspan. Well, his left wing was the one in dire need of a flat surface, bound in thick bandages while the stitches healed and the bone mended.

The broken wing meant Castiel was out of business, and since he couldn't fly, he was stuck on earth like a rat in a cage. The difference was that Castiel enjoyed the cage, and mercilessly abused his unfortunate position by whipping out his innocent puppy eyes every time he needed something. One look at Dean, and Castiel was pampered with whatever he wanted.

And Sam was seriously questioning his brother's budding homosexuality. Castiel had unleashed the inner housewife within Dean, and Dean happily looked after the angel, cleaning his bandages, giving him food and drink, even changing the damn channel on the TV! Sam had a feeling Dean was abusing the situation just as equally as Castiel was, in the hopes of finally educating him with _culture_.

Sam felt like the third wheel.

He was leaning back in the desk chair, lazily scrolling through newspaper reports and recent investigations. Nothing up their ally, so far. He glanced up, and across the room, Cas was snuggled underneath the heavy duvet, chin tucked into his chest and hair messy, falling across his face ungracefully. He was engrossed in _Life on Mars_, some weird TV show obsessed with the seventies... Sam wasn't entirely sure. Sprawled on the bed, surrounding Cas, was a collection of Kurt Vonnegut (Dean's recommendation), a half-eaten packet of liquorice and a packet of paracetamol. He was content enough.

What Sam noticed most, when Castiel didn't have to think about being an angel, was how much his face softened when he relaxed: brow relieved of its heavy creases and eyes no longer the intense stare that had the ability to shoot straight into one's soul. The shadows underneath his eyes had disappeared, and having a conversation with him no longer felt like a war.

Castiel twitched, and his good wing stretched, flaring out vertically. He grimaced as the sound of popping joints filled the air, then sighed and placed the wing gently down onto the mattress again. The other remained still.

"Cas?" Sam began, curious. There was never a better time, considering Dean had skipped away to make errands – food, mostly. "Does it hurt, if you stop flying for a while?"

He blinked, and tore his eyes reluctantly away from the flashing screen of vibrant wallpapers and vintage collars. "Yes. It appears my wings need even more attention since becoming visible, so this injury has been a setback in terms of retaining my strength."

Sam nodded, "But you're not in agony, right?"

"This is more of a concern than unused wings," Castiel gestured towards the bandaged appendage, bitterly eying the useless mass of feathers. Apparently, angels were prone to mood swings and grumpy shifts when one of their wings had been restrained and had needles poked into it. It didn't exactly _look_ pleasant, what with the glossy feathers stringy and bent out of place, and the colour of rust staining the white cloth that had been so unattractively wrapped around the forearm.

Castiel scowled at his wing, then returned his focus towards the TV. Only moments later, however, and the front door swung open and Dean hobbled in, his face concealed by the four large paper bags he was somehow balancing in his arms. Sam considered giving him a clap for his efforts, but decided against it. He watched instead, smiling amusedly at his older brother who staggered into the small kitchen, only differentiated from the main room by tiles rather than carpet, and dumped the bags onto the counter. He cracked a grin at both Sam and Cas, "We're all gettin' a treat tonight."

"I'm not particularly fond of food poisoning, Dean," Sam pointed out dryly, and Castiel chuckled softly. Sam smiled. It was nice when Castiel approved of his jokes.

"I'm a culinary master, Sammy. Now shut your face." Dean proceeded to empty the bags, but from where he was sitting, Sam couldn't see what Dean had nor what he was preparing. He shrugged, and closed his laptop.

As he finished the beer next to him, he noticed Castiel fidgeting once again, attempting to reach around to scratch his back. The duvet slipped down to his waist, revealing his bare chest with very little hair. Sam whined. "Cas."

Castiel merely shrugged it off, obviously unaffected by blatant nudity – made sense. Shame and pride were traits that humans had developed, and angels had very little awareness of the societal protocols that dominated the general public. It probably felt like that only a few weeks ago to Castiel that humans of tribal lands wore nothing but woad and leaves.

Suddenly, the room smelt of herbs and lemon and most definitely, _turkey_. Sam frowned, and instinctively pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking for a date. **22****nd**** November – 6.54pm**, read the header. Well, that cleared things up. It was the nefarious day of Thanksgiving.

Sam inhaled again; making sure his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. Was Dean seriously preparing a Thanksgiving dinner? Since when did they ever celebrate Thanksgiving? He glanced to Cas, who hardly seemed phased by the smell, instead munching absentmindedly on a piece of liquorice. The guy didn't even need to eat, but apparently, when bedridden for four weeks, it was okay to bend the rules.

It was only twenty minutes later that Dean had called up Sam, "Hey, get your butt over here."

Sam walked to the kitchen, and Dean looked sheepish, "I just heated it up. And these said microwavable on the packet," he gestured towards the potatoes that had neatly been cut into quarters, "and I didn't know what else people had for these things, so you got fries."

The dish was almost comical. Served onto three plates, mechanical turkey and shitty seasoning roughly pulled apart and distributed evenly; lumpy, dull potatoes; and thin _fries_, it was hardly something of an authentic Thanksgiving dinner. But Sam didn't even care, giving his brother a genuine smile for his efforts. "Where we gonna sit?"

"We'll draw up some chairs next to Cas's beds. I don't have a problem eatin' a plate off my lap." Dean nudged one of the plates to Sam, "That's yours."

Sam nodded, and like Dean suggested, pulled up the desk chair and placed it beside the healthy side of Castiel, Dean following soon afterwards. He handed a plate to Castiel, who sat up groggily and glimpsed sceptically at the food, "What's this for?" he asked, not distastefully.

"Thanksgiving, Cas," Dean explained, pulling up the other chair that was lurking in the motel room, "Sketchy origins, but mostly, it's about families gettin' together and eating Turkey. And we're all pretty thankful for each other, and I guess, uh, we give thanks for what we've got."

Sam snickered, "That was very beautiful, Dean."

"Hey, shut your face." Dean said with easiness, sitting down, "We're happy today. Now eat your damn turkey."

Castiel prodded at the hunk of white meat with his fork, and wondered if it was edible. He looked to Sam, and after Sam had swallowed his first bite, he took that as a sign that it wasn't poisoned, and jabbed his fork into the meat. He brought it up to his mouth and closed on his fork, munching at the strange texture, comparing the taste to the other foods he had been subject to over the last month. He decided the taste was bland, but not enough to say that he didn't like it.

"Well?" Dean asked uncertainly. He knew he wasn't a culinary genius, knew he was a failure in the kitchen, and that was obvious enough considering he had only just realised that vegetables were also part of the Thanksgiving dinner. But he did want some sort of gratitude. That would be nice; to know that at least someone thought his pathetic efforts were worth something.

Castiel stared at Dean, "Despite the tedium of eating, I like that you've done this."

Dean couldn't have grinned wider, "Thanks, buddy."

They ate the rest of their dinner contentedly.

Later that night, the pace changed. It was different. Sam crashed on the lounge, his laptop propped between his chest and his knees while scrolling through mostly useless junk. It was amazing what could be found on the internet, from informational scientific blogs to poorly captioned stock photos to websites that consisted of nothing more than a looped flash file, able to trigger epilepsy and probably make any serious web-designer cringe.

For the most part, Dean and Cas had been watching _Life on Mars_, Dean watching from the plastic chair he hadn't moved from since dinner. He held a beer in his hand, the glass dry of its former condensation. It was nearly empty. The pair had exchanged only a few words.

Then, the season finished, and the marathon that was airing ceased. Cas whined, "What about the second season?"

"Probably will air tomorrow," Dean said, a smile growing. He finished the beer and placed it on the floor beside him, before rubbing his bristled face with the back of his hand.

Castiel sighed, and closed his eyes momentarily. Then he opened them again, and shuddered. He jittered and tensed, rolling his shoulders into the mattress with a pained look across his face. Dean glanced at him, "Painkillers?"

The angel shook his head. His lips parted, about to explain his dilemma but only closed his mouth again. Instead, he sat up, an endeavour within itself as he weakly lifted his upper body up by his arms that he propped behind him. His left wing remained slack, drooping from his shoulder blade. Two weeks ago, Castiel had abandoned all forms of upper body garments with the protestation that they were far too uncomfortable, and even though Dean had bought him loose shirts and even slit the backs for his wings, Castiel wouldn't have it. But, neither brother allowed Castiel to get away without pants, even if Dean was a dirty hypocrite. In his defence, he simply chose to ignore etiquette, whereas Castiel was unaware of it. Thus, it was Dean's duty to inform him that pants were still a thing.

Castiel shifted, and twisted his upper body, his back facing Dean. "Hurts."

Dean winced at the sight: flakes of skin peeling off two alarmingly red rashes that formed around both wings. "Christ, they've gotten worse."

At this point, Sam craned his neck, looking up at what Dean was inspecting.

"I'll get some ointment, we got some. Wait a second."

Castiel nodded, watching Dean quickly leave into the bathroom. He returned moments later with a small tube, and Sam frowned as he watched his brother liberally apply the cream onto Castiel's shoulder blades. Sam _knew_ that Dean was only helping Castiel, but he had a feeling that Dean was being a bit _too_ gay about it. It was, in a sense, unreal, considering Dean was a relatively heterosexual person. Hell, what was he talking about? The guy was as straight as a ruler. It was part of his personality, to be the American idolisation of masculinity; what with the involuntary flirtations to any woman he had contact with, the fondness of beer and boots over wine and suits, and most of all, his raging desire to have sex. But around Cas, Sam had slowly been adjusting to the intimate connection his brother and the angel shared, including battles of what Sam had personally coined as _eyefucking_ and the constant breaking of personal space.

And there Dean was, and it was unfortunate to realise that it was the second time Sam had watched Dean rub his hands all over another man's back. Sure, angels were genderless, but vessels were not, and Sam was certain that Castiel would have made the choice of identifying as a male more than he would female, even if the choice was only subtle. The slight masculine mannerisms made all the difference between Castiel possessing a male's body and _being_ male.

"Thank you," Castiel mumbled, once Dean had removed his hands. Dean smiled: an awkward, somewhat indecisive smile that was rare of him to show. A moment of hesitant intermission settled in, and Castiel darted his eyes to the muted monitor of the TV set, a reporter presenting the late time news, it appeared. Then Dean ran his tongue along his lips, rehydrating the skin with a troubled look crossing his face, considering and turning over idle thoughts that Sam could only begin to fathom.

Then, the moment ended, and something else entirely was introduced: an indescribable sense of a profound bond that only Dean and Cas could ever share, that if it were anyone else, then questions would be asked and eyebrows would be raised with the idea that they were more than just friends, and it was exactly that. Whether Sam liked the idea or not, Dean had a relationship with Cas that transcended friends, even _blood_; they were the complimentary opposites on the male spectrum but similar in so many ways, able to slip past the contrived ideas of masculinity and enter each other's boundaries. And Dean did exactly that.

"Hey," Dean murmured, and he was soft, ginger. Castiel was staring at him now, and Sam knew he was looking at Dean's soul, his gaze powerful and steady. Dean didn't back down, meeting his eyes, and without hesitation, lifted the duvet and slid across the mattress, lying next to Castiel. He rested his head onto his good wing, and broke his gaze with Cas.

If it weren't for the fact that Dean was Sam's _brother, _then he would have found the image sweet. Castiel's lips were twitching into a faint smile, and his wing curved around Dean protectively, not protesting nor disliking the denim press against his own trousers. Cotton brushed his feet, stubble scraped against his shoulder, and miraculously, out of all things, Dean closed his eyes and was sent into deep sleep almost immediately.

Sam stared, then he blinked. Twice. His brother? He realised quickly that Castiel was giving him a _look_, a look that questioned Sam's incredulity. "You seem bothered."

Sam closed his laptop, "Not precisely. But Dean is...?"

"Looking into Dean's mind, it appears he's more interested in sleeping on a comfortable mattress than anything else."

Made sense. Since Castiel stole both beds, it was an endless struggle between the two brothers with the couch. Sam sighed in relief, comfortable that Dean's motives were selfish, and of course, normality had been restored.

Still, he couldn't but ponder the irreplaceable relationship between Cas and Dean. Maybe there really was more than meets the eye – and let's be honest, there was quite a lot that met the eye – but then again, Sam could be overanalysing. He doubted Dean had any interest.

Unless it was a crazy wing kink.

* * *

_**AN:** _Belated Thanksgiving chapter! I don't even know what Thanksgiving is about, so excuse me if I missed out on some super important ritual of the stupid excuse of a holiday that is literally the most pointless public holiday in the world. As you can tell, I have no respect for the day, nor do I find its origins culturally significant to the point of becoming a celebrated holiday. My personal opinions.

Okay, a head's up, but seriously, I am inclined to tone down for the next few chapters on the destiel. It's difficult to actually write it when there's no sustained plot throughout, and I don't particularly want this to develop into a full-fledged plot-driven story purely because this is one of the first times that I can just enjoy each chapter as it is, and don't have to plan ahead, and can write because I want to. And I think that's why I've made so many updates, because it is so flexible.

I don't think this is the best chapter I've written, either, and am quite disgraced at the length. One thing I am training myself to do is to cut down, as in many of my original works where I put a lot of effort and thought into, I write a massive amount of rich text, and realise only after many edits that it is unneeded. So this is an exception, and I promise you, the next few chapter will be short and sweet, and hopefully less painfully out of character. I'm sorry. I was trying to adhere to my friends' requests. That was difficult.

End note- Dean likes Kurt Vonnegut so I like Dean, and you should too. I also have only seen the pilot episode of _Life on Mars_, the British (better) version so I didn't really need to elaborate about the show. It's a good show though and I plan on watching more. I also think it will be fun to include more references to other TV shows along with other mediums; intertextuality has always played a large role in Supernatural, so I should join the bandwagon in my own pathetic way.

Okay, long author's note. Never again. You guys are all fantastic, and I'm probably going to update slower because assessments. Love and kisses, your friendly Australian, Claudia x


	18. Louder than Words

The sun was shining, the crisp morning air invigorating and the wing of a certain angel had finally healed.

It had been six weeks in total that Castiel had lounged and remained glued to lumpy mattresses, temporarily disabled and cut off from heaven while he healed, while the brothers continued hunting monsters on a much smaller scale than usual. They could leave Castiel for a few days, but any longer than five days, then the risk of the bone becoming infected was almost certain and most definitely, agitated boredom of a supernatural creature could only lead to disaster.

But, the day had come.

Castiel was itching to get outside. The digital clock flashed 6am, and his right wing, the one free of the despicable bonds that had contained his left over the course of six weeks, bobbed Dean over the head accordingly. Dean groaned, back aching while adjusting to the light that suddenly flooded the room. The blinds had been opened – Castiel's doing – and slowly, Dean sat up, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to force the sleep out of him. Sleeping on the floor for the most part hadn't done him much good, and after Thanksgiving, he hadn't been inclined to go near Castiel as often. Sam had been pummelling Dean with cheap innuendo, insinuating certain aspects of Dean's sexuality that mortified him to think about.

"Morning," Dean grunted, "Sleep well?" he asked with a level of sarcasm. Castiel didn't catch it.

"You are perfectly aware that I am unable to sleep," Castiel replied, sitting up straight. "I suggest you wake up Sam and the two of you can clean yourselves appropriately. Immediately after, I expect to be released."

"Hey, don't make us out to be like your captives," Dean protested tiredly, climbing up off the floor. He adjusted his briefs, yawning.

Castiel rolled his eyes, "You were the one that slammed my wing into a door, if I remember correctly. Which I do."

"Yeah yeah, Feathers, we stopped making me feel guilty three weeks ago, alright?" Dean crossed the room, and shook Sam's shoulder. The guy stirred, and made a sound that was strangely similar to a dying whale. Dean smiled, and before Sam could properly regain his senses, Dean snatched a pair of old jeans and a plain shirt off the chair beside the sofa, and bounced into the bathroom.

He stripped, and stepped into the shower, turning on both taps. The hot water burst from the showerhead and poured over his sore body, a soothing relief to start his day. Abiding by the bathroom routine, he proceeded to wash his hair and body. Out of the shower, he shaved – an electronic razor allowed him to keep the stubble – and discreetly trim a few hairs here and there, then finally drying and dressing.

The bathroom was steamy when he exited, and Sam grumbled as he walked by him because he knew there would be no hot water.

Half an hour later, Castiel was fidgety and impatient. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, his eyes glued to the brothers as they scoffed down their breakfast. Unable to wait any longer, he crawled off the mattress, which turned out to be a rather idiotic idea due to the wing that was still bandaged together tightly and consequently causing him to remain off-balanced to the point where he was unable to stand. He whined, "Dean."

Dean sighed, and threw his empty plate into the sink. He gulped down his coffee and sauntered towards Cas, balancing Cas by putting his arm around his waist, "Okay, I'll walk you outside." He glanced over his shoulder to Sam, "Grab Cas's clothes before following us out, 'kay?"

Sam nodded, and Dean led Cas outside. Cas scowled, "Get this thing off me."

"Alright, we'll get there." Dean said, incredulously. He was surprised; you'd think the angel would be thankful and show a bit more gratitude. Rather, Cas was hostile, eager to stretch his wing. Maybe once the bandages were off, he would be grateful.

Dean crouched down, placing the angel on the gutter outside. Carefully, he held the wing in both hands and raised it off the ground, inspecting the appendage with delicate care. "Ready?" he asked finally, and Castiel nodded. He unhooked the clips and began unravelling the bandages from around the bone. The feathers that had been crushed from the tightly wound bandages shifted, already beginning to straighten themselves as the wing was given more leverage. Then, Dean placed the bandage on the ground beside him and fisted his pocket for his pocketknife, pulling it out and flicking the blade out. "Please don't move, or I'll never forgive myself – again." He pushed the blade into the plaster that had held together the mending bone, and cut open what seemed to be the equivalent of rusty shackles.

Finally, Dean pulled the cast off and after many weeks of waiting, Castiel stretched out the wing, a sigh of relief washing over him. Weirdly, like an involuntary reflex, Dean reached out and combed his fingers through Castiel's scrunched up wing, straightening the feathers with ginger fingers. He noticed Castiel glance at him sceptically.

"Shut up," Dean muttered, pulling his hands away. "You can't fly with your wing like that."

"I didn't say anything," Castiel replied. He stood up and flared both wings, like a mating ritual of a peacock proudly presenting its magnificent display. The motel door opened, and Sam stepped out, holding the folded pile of Castiel's clothes, minus the pants. Trousers had been the one thing Castiel had stayed in.

"You look healthy," Sam said, and suddenly, in a blink of an eye, Castiel had disappeared, as had his clothes.

Dean stared at the spot where Castiel had stood in disbelief, "What was that about?" he snapped, anger creeping into his system, "Is that all the thanks I get? I busted my ass off looking after him."

Sam shrugged, "Maybe he just needs to stretch his wings. I bet he'll be back within the hour and properly thank you then. He has been out of action for more than a month."

Much to Sam's surprise, Dean yelled and kicked the gutter harshly, cursing crudely. Sam gulped and quickly took hold of his shoulders, straightening him before he could deface anything of any value. Dean, in retaliation, tensed and pushed himself backwards, attempting to free himself from his brother's strong grip.

"Dean, calm down!"

Dean took deep breaths, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. He relaxed, and Sam reluctantly let him go.

"Why is that when you devote your time to someone with only good intentions, they only seem interested in getting away from you?"

Sam stared, and suddenly he seemed to have a better understanding of why Dean had trust issues – he had done the exact same to him when he ran off to Stanford. He wouldn't ever admit it out loud, but Dean was more of a father and a mother put together than John ever was. He gulped dryly, "Cas isn't like that. He'll be back."

Dean's temper only worsened, and he balled his hands into tight fists, his upper lip curling as he tried to control his anger. It didn't last long. Dean swore again, and stormed off towards the Impala, igniting the engine before driving away with a loud shriek of spinning tires burning rubber on the ground.

* * *

It had been two weeks. Within the two weeks, the brothers had travelled across four states and successfully put three ghosts to rest and decapitated two vampires. Throughout the days absent of a certain angelic presence, Dean had been relatively quiet. Sam hadn't asked if Dean was okay, and figured Dean would only snap and bark at Sam: 'is this going to be another chick-flick moment, Sammy?'

Overall, Dean had been nerving Sam. He watched him like a hawk with the belief that his brother could potentially spontaneously combust at any moment, but fortunately Dean had maintained his demeanour of perpetual apathy. Denial that anything affected him was one of Dean's most prominent traits.

But after two weeks, Castiel returned.

Dean was returning from the library; he had offered to collect the books they needed for their latest case, and according to Sam it was yet another clue that Dean was affected by Castiel.

The elder brother climbed out the car and piled the books into his arms, sauntering towards their motel room door. He fingered his pocket, searching for the key while balancing the thick books and managed to pull the key out. Dean glanced over the towering pile of books, then almost dropped the entire pile as a flash of glossy black feathers crossed his eye line. "Cas?"

Castiel was sitting on the steps in front of their motel room door, his wings arched and towering over him. They casted a dark shadow over his trench coat, and he looked tired. He raised his head, and his eyes, usually so brilliantly blue, were dull. "Hello, Dean."

Dean was expecting something different. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch Cas and yell and swear and demand to know where he had been, what he had been doing, but all of that faded away once Castiel had returned. He tongued the inside of his dry mouth nervously, "Hey," he said lamely.

He leaned down and placed the books on the ground, then sat down beside Cas, leaving a foot between them. Feathers brushed against his side gently. Same smell, same touch. Still Cas.

Neither of them spoke, instead avoiding gazes in the awkward silence. Dean looked up at the sky, and the angel's balled hands crossed themselves over his chest.

Dean broke the quietness first, "I missed you," he said honestly.

"Sorry."

"That's it?" Dean blinked, "I was helping you almost every day, and then you fly off without a word of thanks."

Castiel sighed, "Dean, I have my duties up in Heaven. Accidentally cutting myself off had caused us to fall back considerably, and I had to make up for time lost. This isn't a personal matter."

"You could have said something."

The angel glanced at Dean, only shortly, before folding in his lower lip and running his tongue over it. He frowned, and Dean waited patiently. Finally, Castiel inhaled and caught Dean's eyes, "The angels don't trust me around you and your brother, Dean. They are under the impression that by involving the majority of my time with you two... they find it dirty. And I understand that."

Dean frowned, "I don't."

"Dean, look at my wings. They're black. They're dark."

"And?"

Castiel darted his eyes to the ground, and rested his hands on his knees, face dropping unhappily. "They used to be white, Dean. Then I returned from Hell with you in my arms, and the stains that I thought were temporary bleached my feathers and they never changed back. I'm..." Castiel trailed off, and closed his eyes, "I'm an abomination. I'm wrong."

"Shit, Cas..." Dean wished he had more to say, then realised words were useless. Instinctively, he shuffled closer to Cas and wrapped his arms around him, and before he knew it Castiel was nuzzling his neck, and his skin was cold, wet. The angel shuddered, and Dean clenched his hands, tightening his grip on the coat as Castiel silently poured out his feelings. Dean rested his chin upon Castiel's hair, and he shut his eyes tightly, willing happiness that would never come.

Neither needed words.

* * *

**AN:** I was in the mood for something a little less cheery. Enjoy.

Less updates starting from now - I have once again another assessment period and I am flipping my shit. As a side note, if anyone has good resources on the topic of capitalism (especially in the future), or anything about 1945-1989 (Cold War, etc) then please alert me. Thank.


	19. Les Misérables

There was nothing more satisfying to Dean than a successful hunt and a visit to the local bar. And Dean figured, since he had been given both, nothing could possibly spoil his good mood.

The bar was loud and noisy. Seventies rock blared through the speakers of a jukebox missing certain bass levels, and regular drunks hollered over the clutter of conversations. Dean gave his brother a smirk before quickly slipping into the crowd. He found his way to the front of the bar, and sat himself down on one of the stools, strategically positioning himself beside the most attractive woman there.

She was mid-twenties. Blonde. Blue eyes. Great tits. She was drinking some sweet Malibu shit, sitting up straight that made her boobs bulge from her chest. It wasn't just upstairs that was eye candy – what with her crossed long legs showing off her toned calves. Dean noticed a tattoo on her ankle, and he squinted, trying to make out the faded words. He gave up quickly. It was weird to stare at a girl's ankle when you wanted to chat her up.

Dean ordered a drink, flashing his best smile at the bartender. She giggled receptively, handing him his Guinness in response. That grabbed the woman's attention beside him. She glanced towards Dean, and he smiled at her, raising his eyebrows. _Hey, fuck me?_ said his eyebrows. "The jukebox needs some work, doesn't it?"

The blonde nodded, "It's always been like that. You not local?"

"No, only been here a few days. Leaving tomorrow morning," he paused, "Dean Winchester." He held out his hand, and she shook it.

"Cosette Johnson," she replied, and Dean thought her smile was off.

"Do you wanna get out of here?" Dean suggested.

She shook her head, "I'm here with my boyfriend, Zack." It explained the off-look. But not even a turn down to sex was going to spoil his mood. He shrugged and drank from his glass, swallowing the icy beverage with ease, "Sure. We can still talk?"

Cosette laughed, incredulous. "Are you serious? I thought guys who were only interested in sex left immediately after a girl was out of bounds."

"Hey, I'm not _only_ interested in sex," Dean protested weakly, "I'm just having a good day. Tell me anything. I'll listen."

Cosette ran a hand through her hair, her curls bouncing gently on her shoulder. "I'm boring. I work as a temp. What do you do, since you're not local?"

"I doubt you're boring." Dean told her, "Well, my brother and I travel around. Road trip, I guess. But we go where there's work. Sometimes our friend Cas joins in. He's here now."

"What sort of work?"

Dean grimaced, attempting to think of a good excuse. As it turned out, he didn't have to try.

"Secret, is it?" she smirked, "I'll assume you're going to say defence."

He laughed, knowing she was implying he worked for the CIA, or the equivalent of. "I'll go with it," he said vaguely.

Suddenly, he felt cotton against his shoulder. His back arched in alarm, and he craned his neck, seeing Castiel nervously stand beside him – and in alarming proximity. It was the same look Cas had when he was offered sex on a plate, with eyebrows high and blue eyes blazing blue with innocence.

"Dean."

Dean turned around and grinned at the angel. It was always more entertaining to have Castiel accompany them to more domestic settings, and ever since Cas had learnt how to obscure his wings both brothers could amuse themselves at Castiel's utter incompetency at life.

"What is it, Cas?

"Dean, a woman approached me."

Dean snickered, unable to stop himself. Castiel's uncomfortableness of his own sexuality never failed to amuse Dean, "Alright. What happened?"

Castiel cleared his throat, "Well, after she asked if I wanted to leave with her, I said... I said I was with you."

Dean groaned, "Cas!" he glimpsed at Cosette, and by her look, he realised she was getting all the wrong impressions: works for the CIA and doesn't mind that he's getting nothing from a woman. He sighed and focused on Cas, "Okay. Next time, don't mention me. People will assume things. Instead, you're going to find Sam and stay with him."

The angel nodded unsurely, looking at Cosette before leaving. Dean turned to face Cosette again, "I'm sorry. He's not the most functioning of beings, you know."

She only giggled, "Is he your boyfriend?"

It was too late for Dean to prevent the scarlet shade forming in his cheeks, "No!" he replied quickly, "I'm straight. Really straight. I have sex with women. All the time."

"Sure," she teased, and Dean pouted, flexing his muscles instinctively as his inner dominant masculinity entered the physical world. Without a second thought, he cupped her chin and pulled her towards his lips before kissing her. He sucked at her plump lower lip, tasting minty lip gloss and sweet alcohol. Then, he felt her lips move against his; he poked out his tongue, and slipped it in between her lips. She sucked his tongue, the tip of her tongue against his. _Finally_. He didn't even care that she was taken. The desire to screw her seemed so much more feasible when they were sucking face. He pictured the pair of them in bed, her legs hoisted up onto his shoulders. He'd get a better look at her tattoo, that was for sure.

His fantasies didn't last long. A grand total of seven seconds. He felt a strong hand grip his collar, and suddenly he was thrown to the ground. He smashed onto the floor, but scrambled to his feet at once. Defensive position, arms in front, focus. The perpetrator was almost as large as Sam, but with less hair. The guy curled his upper lip and flexed his biceps, "Don't touch my girlfriend."

A circle had formed around Dean and the guy that was Cosette's boyfriend. _Zack_. That's right. Dean merely winked at him, the cocky bastard he was. That got Zack going, and he charged at Dean, aiming for his stomach. Only moments before his fist would connect with Dean's ribs, Dean jumped to the side, snatching Zack's arm in midair, propelling his entire body onto the ground. Zack swore, picking himself up. Dean kicked him in the face.

He fell back down onto the ground. For a fleeting second, Dean thought that was the end of it. Until Zack suddenly swiped at Dean's legs and Dean stumbled, landing on his back. Pain shot down his spine, and his tail bone ached in agony. Then, Zack was towering over him, one leg on either side, and Dean looked away. Fighting or not, he didn't want to gain an all-new perspective of a guy's junk.

Dean would have aimed for the back of Zack's knees, but abruptly, the man was no longer standing over him, but four feet away clutching his stomach. Dean was sure he could see tears. He frowned and stood up, and his gaze connected with Cas. The tricky bastard. Castiel stood at the front of the circle, but there was a clear divide between him and everyone else. No one was near him. If they were, then there was the potential possibility of someone touching his wings.

But Castiel had used his invisibility to his advantage. He must have whacked the guy with one of his wings.

Dean realised people were staring at him. The circle was already breaking away, but of course there were the looks: 'he didn't even touch the guy'; 'how did he do that?' Dean relished the moment for a second, but the feeling vanished once he saw Cosette.

"You good?"

"Sort of pissed, actually." Cosette replied, "You shouldn't have kissed me."

There was something off. It wasn't anger. It was fear – the fear of leaving the bar with her injured boyfriend, waiting for the inevitable criticising that could end with a burning cheek or a bruised thigh. She gulped.

Dean lowered his voice, "Does he hurt you often?"

"I never said..."

"I know that face. Does he?" Dean repeated, and she nodded reluctantly.

Then, Castiel was by Dean's side again. He sighed, but didn't protest. He smiled reassuringly at Cosette, "Cas, my friend here claims she has a few problems with her boyfriend. I think he needs to be taught a thing or two. You wouldn't mind helping out a friend in need?"

When Castiel left, dragging Zack out the door, Cosette couldn't have looked happier. She didn't even ask what Cas was going to do. She didn't care.

* * *

"Wow."

Dean smiled. While also considering himself a brilliant hunter, he was equally as brilliant – if not better – in bed. He kissed her forehead gently, "Yeah."

She buried her head into his chest, her slender fingers stroking his stomach delicately. He shuddered at the touch. He closed his eyes, indulging in the moment. It wasn't often he could relish these moments, where he could pretend nothing existed except for the beautiful girl beside him and the thin sheet covering them. Time was endless; it ceased to serve its purpose.

That is, until it was disrupted.

"Dean," Cosette mumbled. She sounded alarmed. He opened his eyes lazily, then scowled.

Cas. He stood there awkwardly, once again aware that he had arrived at a very problematic time. Any minute earlier, and it could have been even worse. He shifted from foot to foot, "Uh. Sorry. I thought – your partner is in his home. He's sleeping. Uh."

"Cas, piss off. Go to Sam."

Cas shuffled towards the front door, and glanced back towards Dean. Dean glowered, "Go."

Unexpectedly, the painting by the door fell off the wall and the suitcase rack overturned itself. Castiel was flustered, and Dean was thankful Cosette had closed her eyes because Castiel had disappeared in front of the door. What the hell?

With a sickening drop in his stomach, Dean sensed déjà vu, remembering back to the last time Castiel had dropped in without notice. And Dean had been fucking himself. He wondered if Castiel's wings had lost control again.

Jesus Christ, Dean thought worriedly, it better not be an angel boner.

* * *

**AN:** Okay, haven't updated in a while. Got assessments next week. Pretty stressed out, but I wanted to write one thing. I have more ideas now, and there will be more short ficlets. As in, two-three pages maximum.

I am crying over 8x08. It has easily become my favourite episode this entire season. So much gay. Dean and Cas were talking feelings I just- asdfhygsjkljfgsdfd


	20. Gravity of Friction

"You're not in your room."

Dean rolled his eyes, "I'm walking in the lift now. I'll be there in five minutes." Cutting off Cas, he pressed his thumb onto the red key of the pad and shoved it into his pocket. The light pointing upwards flashed, and the doors creak open, shaking and groaning from years of neglect and forming rust. Dean hated lifts. Ducking his head down, he walked inside and pushed a button: level 78 lit up. The doors started to close.

Suddenly, in a flurry of black and wind whipping across Dean's face, Dean stumbled backwards and an unknown force slammed him against the wall. He closed his eyes tightly out of instinct, then retaliated, pushing the mass off him.

"What the hell?" Dean yelled. Castiel. The angel stood – not so much as stood, but crouched awkwardly while he attempted to fit his wings inside the small elevator, feathers flayed out across the wall, scrunched and bunched up uncomfortably.

"It seems I have underestimated the size of the elevator."

"Why couldn't you just wait?" Dean snapped, "I said five minutes!" he shook his head, and inched away from the angel's right wing that was slowly edging towards him. He shoved the wing away, but it seemed to have the opposite effect; the bone joint slipped over the corner and Castiel lost control, and the wing thrust itself at Dean, throwing him to the other side of the wall directly into his other wing. He yelped, crushed between both wings, "Move your feathers!"

Castiel blinked, and then paused momentarily, his brow furrowed with concentration. "I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?!"

"It appears my wings are trapped, Dean."

Dean growled. A large feather brushed itself along Dean's thigh and he shuddered. Then he growled again, "Don't move. Don't move at all." Both wings halted, and Dean became increasingly aware of the feather which only incidentally happened to be lodged in between both of Dean's thighs. He shifted in between both appendages, and the feather slipped upwards. He stopped. "Jesus Christ."

Castiel cocked his head to the side, "What does Jesus Christ have to do with the current situation we are in, Dean?"

"The guy chilled with whores and only promised a criminal a place in Paradise. I'm sure he's got something to do with this."

"Actually –."

"Don't want to hear it, Cas." Dean's eyes scanned the small lift. He wondered if it were possible to get out of Castiel's strong hold without being felt up. That was something he would like to avoid. Preferably forever. If he couldn't move, then it was up to Cas, and he didn't trust Cas' wings one bit, especially at a time like now.

Dean wiggled his limbs, tensing his biceps as he tried to force the wing in front of him to move. It was lodged between two sides of the lift. If he were able to shift it slightly to the left, then it could easily be moved. Holding his breath, and trying to ignore the feather, he wriggled his right hand up the side of his body. Then, he got a strong grip on the bone of Castiel's wing, and pushed it away from him, carefully, slowly.

Castiel winced, "Dean."

"Not good?"

He shook his head, "Allow me to try."

Castiel rolled his shoulders, and Dean felt both wings shift. Oh Christ the _feather_. Rough denim rubbed itself onto his skin – _too much friction. _He balled his hands into fists and took a deep breath. _In through the nose, out through the mouth_, he told himself, repeating the phrase several times.

"I think I've..." Castiel murmured, trailing off. Relief. The wing found freedom, and Castiel slowly moved the wing towards the opposing wall.

"Are we good?"

Castiel nodded, only to freeze as the sound of groaning metal returned. The lift shook and stopped, halting with such a force that Dean lost his footing and crashed into Cas. "Shit." He hissed, momentarily forgetting personal boundaries as he reached behind Castiel and tickled his fingers behind his back, finding the close button for the door. How on earth would they be able to explain to an innocent citizen that Castiel was an angel of the lord with giant wings? He wouldn't. Because you don't explain that shit.

The angel tensed and shivered, but thankfully the button was found. Dean repeatedly pressed it, holding it down harshly while he mentally willed the door to remain closed. It did. Dean let out a small sigh of relief, and the lift whined as it started up again, whirring loudly as it rattled upwards.

"Dean. Please move your hand."

"Oh, right." Dean pulled his hand out from behind Castiel, and stepped back. Well, he would have stepped back if it weren't for the wing stopping him in his tracks. He was soon made acutely aware of how close he was to Castiel's face, their noses not even two inches away from each other. "Can you, uh, maybe move your wing again?"

"When the lift stopped, my wings slipped. I can't move them."

"Uh." Dean held his hands by his side. Awkward. Castiel glanced towards the ceiling, the small light buzzing as its power slowly died away. There was an unrecognisable stain beside the light, possibly mould but Castiel had a hunch it was ten-year-old barbeque sauce. Humans were weird.

The angel returned its gaze towards Dean. He liked the sight of Dean's green eyes. They always reminded him of something different, but pleasant. Initially, he saw the impeccable green of Heaven's grass in its garden. Now, he saw the shade of emerald glass.

"Stop staring." Dean cleared his throat, averting his eyes elsewhere.

"Sorry." Castiel's gaze didn't take them off Dean's face though, and he frowned as he took in the small details that he never had time to properly examine. Dean was all about personal space, a concept that Castiel had never quite understood. What was so intimidating about closure? He shrugged, and started counting the freckles across his nose. He already knew how many there were, reconstructing Dean when he resurrected him from Hell, but they never ceased to amaze him. He loved how each freckle varied in shade and size, how they scattered over his nose without any thought to pattern. He liked how in winter, when Dean's tan was reduced, they were made more noticeable on his paler skin. Dean had freckles elsewhere, on his shoulders and his arms, but they were not nearly as fascinating as the ones across his nose.

"_Cas_," Dean said warningly, "I said stop."

Castiel looked away briefly; only long enough until Dean began ignoring their close proximity, before bringing his stare back towards Dean's face. Little did Dean know, but Castiel was drawn to his eyes because of the brightness within them: the purity and the goodness of his soul flickering in his irises. He had seen Dean's soul before – all of it – and clutched it underneath his own wing, nurtured it and protected it, and he saw too much black, too much pain and despair and lost hope. But when Dean's soul had returned to his body, when Castiel had laid his eyes on Dean or the first time, he saw the love inside of him that only Sam knew of before. And how that small fraction of his soul burned so brightly.

The lift began to creak. It shook and Castiel bent his knees, maintaining his balance as much as he could as the lift screeched to a halt. The door opened, and both Castiel and Dean stumbled out, loose feathers drifting in the air and Dean sighing in relief.

Sam was at their motel door. Why oh _why_ did their room have to be so close to the damn lift? Dean gulped. "Blame Cas."

"You sicken me, you sick son of a bitch," Sam informed him, "and you should be ashamed of yourself."

Dean huffed, "He sneaked into the lift with me and got stuck!"

Castiel glanced away at this point, partially out of embarrassment and partially out of guilt.

"Whatever you say, Captain Jack. Tell that to the boner you're hiding."

It would be at this moment in time that Dean would break the exception of never blushing. His cheeks flushed a deep pink, "It was a feather! I was stuck and Cas couldn't move the damn thing!"

"Knew you had a wing kink!" Sam yelled, accusing. "I _knew_ it!"

Sam was _never_ going to let his older brother get away with the wing kink, even if it wasn't true. If Dean could constantly joke about his masculinity, then why not tease his sexuality?

* * *

_**AN:**_ Where have I been? Assessment week all week, then last night I had my wisdom teeth removed. My face is swollen like a bitch. Good thing it's the weekend so no one can see my hideousness.

Hope you like this chapter. It was fun to write.


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